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THE 


Windsor Magazine 

AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY 

FOR 

MEN AND WOMEN 


VOL XII 

JUNE TO NOVEMBER 0900 


LONDON 

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED 

WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. 


1900 



PAGE 


Africa, The Future of. Illustrated from photographs 

Agnus, Orme. “ Vickery’s Deplorable Stratagem ” . . . . 

“ The Poet’s Love ” . ...... 

“ The Coming of a Soldier”. ..... 

“ The Miraculous Inspiration of Mr. Jesty ” . 

Ambassador’s Dilemma, The. Illustrated by J. Finnemore 

America and the World’s Wheat Supply. Illustrated from photographs 

An Alien ............ 

Annulling a Prophecy. Illustrated by T. W. Henry .... 

Apotheosis of the Summer Youth, The. 

Archery, Ancient and Modern. Illustrated from photographs . 

Armand’s Treasure. Illustrated by Warwick Goble .... 

Art and Letters in a Surrey Town. Illustrated from photographs . 
Austin, Henry. Illustrations to “ Stromholi and the Guns” 

,, “ The Short Shrift of the Filibuster ”. 

Autumn Morning, An. 


Ernest E. Williams 


E. Phillips Oppenheim 
Bay Stannard Baker 
. Fannie Moody 
W. N. Oscar 
. F. Klickmann 
. Lilias Dawson 
. Mayne Lindsay 
. Charles T. Bateman 


Dorothy Hardy 


537 

63 

203 

347 

431 

452 

665 

22 

469 

240 

502 

679 

577 

567 

700 

565 


Bad News. Florence M. Gill 451 

“Baltic,” The. Illustrated from photographs ..... William C. Mackenzie 559 

Battle Painters and War Artists, A Group of. Illustrated with reproductions of various 

paintings ............. Bohert Machray 261 

Biggest Engine in the World, The. Illustrated from photographs. . Herbert C. Fyfe 169 

Blind, The Education of the. Illustrated from photographs .... Philip Gibbs 217 

Boese, Bertie. “ Ordered to the Front 216 

“A Study” 699 

Illustrations to “ Dogs of War ” . . . . . . • . • 621 

Bridal, The ............ ^t. Clair Simmons 468 

Bridge, Sir Frederick, at Westminster Abbey. Illustrated from photographs F. Klickmann 74 
Butterflies ............. Spenser Pryse 416 

By Courtesy of the Clown. Illustrated by Henry Hutt . . . Annie Fellows Johnston 136 

By Flashlight. Illustrated by Adolf Thiede . . . . . • . G. M. Baines 225 


B 


Camera, Distinguished Devotees of the. Illustrated from photographs 
Century’s Hard Cash, A. Illustrated from diagrams. 

Charge of the 21st Lancers at Omdurman .... 
Cider-Making in the West Country ..... 

Coming of a Soldier, The. Illustrated by Gunning King . 

Conveyances, The Queen’s. Illustrated from photographs. 

Copping, Harold. Illustrations to “ Young Barbarians ” 

Count, The. Illustrated by Harold Copping .... 
Courtesy of the Clown, By. Illustrated by Henry Hutt . 

Cricketers’ Hands, Some Famous. Illustrated from photographs 
Crockett, S. R. “ A Romancer’s Local Colour ” 

Crudeson’s Castle. Illustrated by Will Owen .... 


A. Wallis Myers 363 
J. Holt Schooling 95 
Caton Woodville, BJ. 260 
J. Aytcm Symington 566 
Orme Agnus 347 
. George A. Wade 55 
81, 183, 251, 379, 493, 612 


Ian Maclaren 
Annie Felloios Johnston 
M. Bandal Boberts 


Philip Treherne 


81 

136 

17 

3 

553 


Danish Newlyn, A. Illustrated with reproductions of various paintings . . A. E. Fletcher 123 

Day-Dreams . . . . . . . . . • • • • Anning Bell 224 

Dead Men’s Holiday Louise Chandler Moulton 415 

Distinguished Devotees of the Camera. Illustrated from photographs . A. Wallis Myers 363 
Dogs of War. Illustrated by G. Vernon-Stokes and B. Boese . . . Irving Montagu 621 

Duels of Modern Times, Renowned. Illustrated from photographs . . . A. de Burgh 513 


Editor’s Scrap-Book, The. 

Education of the Blind, The. Illustrated from photographs . 
Engine, The Biggest, in the World. Illustrated from photographs 
Enthusiasts. 


115, 235, 357, 477, 595, 709 
Philip Gibbs 217 
. Herbert G. Fyfe 169 
J, Ay ton Symington 174 






















IV 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

“ Ermack,” The Ice-Breaker. Illustrated from photographs .... Earl Mayo 389 

Error of Justice, An. Illustrated by A. Wallis Slills ..... Harold White 659 

Ewan, Frances. Illustrations to “ The Father Confessor ” ........ 23 

,, “ The Line of Fate” ........ 586 

Extra Charge, The ............ Charles Pears 239 


Famous Cricketers’ Hands, Some. Illustrated from photographs . . M. Ba^idal Roberts 17 

“Far from the Madding Crowd” ........ A. Hugh Fisher 16 

Father Confessor, The. Illustrated by Frances Ewan . . . Mrs. Clement Shorter 23 

Favourite Quotations of Literary People, The. Illustrated from photographs and facsimiles 

F. Klickmann 297 

Fieldfares ............. A. J. Wall 611 

First Lesson, The ............ Percy Tarrant 320 

Fisher, A. Hugh. “ Far from the Madding Crowd ”.16 

“ The Old Orchard ” ........... 122 

Fletcher, A. E. “ A Danish Newlyn 123 

Footsteps of Cupid, In the. Illustrated from photographs . . . Frederick Dolman 307 

Forestier, a. Illustrations to “ Pro Patria ” ...... 33,155,273,397,517,629 

Future of Africa, The. Illustrated from photographs . . ... Ernest E. Williams 537 


Generals, Our Reserve of. Illustrated fr'om photographs . . . ’. Robert Machray 27 

Gleaners, The . . . . . . . . . . . . . Frangois Millet 501 

Gribble, Francis. “ Stromboli and the Guns ” . . . . . . . . . 567 

“ The Short Shrift of the Filibuster ” ........ 700 

Guerilla Warfare. Illustrated by Harold Copping. laii Maclaren 612 


“Heard Melodies are Sweet, but Those Unheard are Sweeter” . . F. H. Williams 482 

Hero of Company G, The. Illustrated by John Da Costa ..... Octave Thanet 103 

His Favourite Fare . .......... J". Ayton Symington 362 

Honeysuckle ............. Beatrice Off or 602 

How Landowners are Made. Illustrated from photographs . . . Arthur Goodrich 425 


Ice-Breaker “ Ermack,” The. Illustrated from photographs .... Earl Mayo 389 

Ideala .............. Arthur Rickett 360 

“I DO Love I Know Not What.” Illustrated by Stephen Reid . .... Herrick 259 

If. Illustrated by A. C. Weatherstone ........ Constance Sutcliffe 73 

In a Summer Land ........... Ha7’old Percival 242 

Indian INIother Song, An .......... . Willis Irwm 651 

India Office, The. Illustrated from photographs ..... Robert Machray 483 

In the Footsteps of Cupid. Illustrated from photographs . . . Frederick Dolmayi 307 

Jalland, G. H. “Reassuring” ............. 115 

“ A Trifle Hazy ” ............ 118 

“Far Safer”.477 

“ The Horse Supply ”.598 

“ Amenities at Our Point to Point Race ” . . . . . . . .714 

Jokes without Words.. Alfred Romier 235 

King, Gunning. Illustrations to “ The Coming of a Soldier ” . . . . . . . 347 

,, “ The Miraculous Inspiration of Mr. Jesty ” . . . . 431 

Klickmann, F. “ An Organist and His Art ” . . . . . . . . . .74 

“ The Apotheosis of the Summer Youth ” . . . . . . . . 240 

“ The Favourite Quotations of Literary People ”.297 

“ Re—ThQ Hubbard Dog ”.480 

“ Concerning Jack and Jill ” .......... 709 

Klickmann, Wilfrid. “Over-developed”.595 

Klimsch, Eugen. “ The Troth ”.135 

“ The Language of Love” .......... 688 

Labour of Love, A ........... . Peixy Ta^Tant 146 

Landowners are Made, How. Illustrated from photographs . . . Arthtir Goodrich 425 

Language of Love, The ........... Eugen Klimsch 688 

Last Resort, A. Illustrated by Harold Copping ....... Ia7i Maclaren 379 

Line of Fate, The. Illustrated by Frances Ewan . . . . . . G. E. Mitton 586 

L. S. D. OF Literary Shrines, The. Illustrated from photographs . . . Harry Golding 441 

Maclaren, Ian. “ Young Barbarians ” ....... 81,183,251,379,493,612 

Mayne Lindsay. “ Armand’s Treasure” . . . . . . . . '. . . 679 














































INDEX, 


V 


Miles, Eustace H. “Tennis” . . . • ^ • 

Mikaculous Inspiration op Mr. Jesty, The. Illustrated by Gunning King 

Montagu, Irving. “Dogs of War” . 

Moody, Eannie. “An Alien” . 

“ Too Hot ”. 

Moonrise on the Moor . . ^. 

Moossy. Illustrated by Harold Copping * ' ‘ ‘ ' 

Morocco, Some Notes About. Illustrated from photographs 
Moulton, Mrs. Louise Chandler. “ Dead Men’s Holiday ”... 
Mrs. Captain Proctor. Illustrated by Victor Prout . . . ... 

“ My First Century.” Illustrated from photographs ..... 


PACK 


Orme Agnus 


. Geoi'ge Bankin 
Ian Maclaren 
. S. L. Bensusan 

Alfred Slade 
M. Randal Roberts 


603 

431 

621 

22 

424 

388 

251 

243 

415 

331 

175 


Newcombe, Bertha. Illustrations to “ Vickery’s Deplorable Stratagem ” 

“ The Poet’s Love ” . 


63 

203 


Oberammergau, The Passion Play at. Illustrated from photographs 

Offor, Beatrice. “Honeysuckle”. 

Old Garden, The. 

Old Orchard, The.. • • 

Oppenheim, E. Phillips. “ The Ambassador’s Dilemma 

Opportunity Makes the Thief. 

Ordered to the Front ....•••• 
Organist and His Art, An. Illustrated from photographs . 

Our Reserve op Generals. Illustrated from photographs 
Over-developed ....•••••• 


A. de Burgh 

Fred Hines 
A. Hugh Fisher 

Ernest Vickers 
B. Boesc 
F. Klickmann 
Robert Machray 
Wilfrid Klickmann 


193 

602 

492 

122 

452 

509 

216 

74 

27 

595 


Pears, Charles. 


Pemberton, Max. 
Percival, Harold. 


Passion Play at Oberammergau, The. 

Pastoral, A. 

“ A Serious Dilemma ” 

“ The Extra Charge ” 

“ Too Old a Bird ” . 

“ A Possible Explanation ” 

“ Taken for Granted ” 

‘ProPatria” 

“ A Pastoral ” 

“ In a Summer Land ”. 

Pett Ridge, W. “ The City at Lunch ” 

Pictures in Fire. Illustrated from photographs 
Playing a Substitute. Illustrated by A. Wallis Mills 
Pleasant Sin, A. Illustrated by Harold Copping 
Poet’s Love, The. Illustrated by Bertha Newcombe 
Polo, The Present Popularity of. Illustrated from photographs 

Possible Explanation, A. 

Problem for Empires, A. Illustrated from photographs 
Pro Patria. Illustrated by A. Forestier 


Illustrated from photographs . . A. de Burgh 193 

Harold Fercival Frontispiece 

119 
239 
359 
479 
711 

33, 155, 273, 397, 517, 629 


Frontispiece 


Frederick A. Talbot 
Horace Bleackley 
Ian Maclaren 
Orme Agnus 
Basil Tozer 
Chas. Pears 
S. L. Bensusan 


242 
710 
459 
313 
493 
203 
340 
479 

243 


Max Pemberton 33, 155, 273, 397, 517, 629 


Queen’s Conveyances, The. Illustrated from photographs . 


George A. Wade 55 


“Rejected Addresses” ......... 

Renowned Duels of Modern Times. Illustrated from photographs . 
Reserve of Generals, Our. Illustrated from photographs 
Rickett, Arthur. “ Novel Apparel ” . 

“ Ideala 

“ Dairy-lNIade Music ” . 

Romancer’s Local Colour, A. Illustrated from photographs 
Ronner, Alfred. “ Jokes without Words ” . . . . . 


Montagu Barstoio 678 
A. de Burgh 513 
Robert Machray 27 
. 235 

. 360 

. 477 

S. R. Crockett 3 
. 235 


Salvation Army as a Social Force, The. Illustrated by photographs . Fred A. MacKenzie 689 
Science v. Sentiment . . . . . . . . . . !• Ay ton Symington 15 

Serious Dilemma, A . . . . . . . . . . . . Chas. Pears 119 

“ Set a Thief-” . . . . . . . . . • . . W. E. Webster 117 

Shire-Horses, Some Splendid. Illustrated from photographs .... Gambier Bolton 89 

Shorter, Mrs. Clement. “ The Father Confessor ” . . . . . . . . .23 

Short Shrift of the Filibuster, The. Illustrated by Henry Austin . . Francis Hribble 700 

Some Famous Cricketers’ Hands. Illustrated from photographs . . M. Randal Roberts 17 

Song ............... L. G. Moberly 101 

Song of the Dawn, A ......... . Mrs. Comyns Carr 80 

Spencer, Mr. Percival, A Chat with. Illustrated from photographs . Frederick A. Talbot 321 







































VI 


INDEX. 


Spring. Illustrated by E. Vickers. 

Stromboli and the Guns. Illustrated by Henry Austin 
Symington, J. Ayton. “ Science v. Sentiment ” . 

“ Enthusiasts ” 

“ His Favourite Fare ” . 

“ Cider-Making in the West Country” 


PA OK 

W. Bennett 102 
. Francis Gh'ihble 567 
. 15 

. 174 

. 362 

. 566 


Taken for Granted . Ghas. Pears 711 

Telephone of the Future, The. Illustrated from photographs . . . G. A. Paper 510 

Tennis. Illustrated from photographs. Fjustace H. Miles 603 

To All Whom it May Concern . Arthur Cooke 599 

Too Hot .............. Fannie Moody 424 

Too Old a Bird . Ghas. Pears 359 

To THE Memory of the Brave. Illustrated from photographs .... George A. Wade 147 

Tournament, A. Illustrated by Harold Copj)ing ....... Ian Maclaren 183 

Traveller in the Air, A. Illustrated from photographs .... Frederick A. Talbot 321 

Troth, The . E. Klwisch 135 


Value of a Vote, The. Illustrated from diagrams ..... IT. Morgan-Broume 653 

Vickers, E. “Spring”.102 

“ Opportunity Makes the Thief ” . . . . . . . , . . 509 

Vickery’s Deplorable Stratagem. Illustrated by Bertha Newcombe . . Oryne Agnus 63 


Wade, George A. “ The Queen’s Conveyances ” ......... 55 

“ To the Memory of the Brave ” ........ 147 

“ The Yeomen of the Guard ” . 417 

Wall, A. J. “ Who Goes There ? ” ............ 346 

“Fieldfares” ............. 611 

Wheat Supply, America and the World’s. Illustrated from photographs . Ray Stannard Baker 665 

“ When Autumn Wanes to Winter ”. George Rankin 658 

“ Who Goes There ? ” . . . . . . . . . . . . A. J. Wall 346 

Williams, Ernest E. “ The Future of Africa ”.537 

Yeomen of the Guard, The. Illustrated from photographs . . . . George A. TVade 417 

Young Barbarians. Illustrated by Harold Copping . . Ian Maclaren 81, 183, 251, 379, 493, 612 









































21 pastocal. 

From the Picture by Harold Percival. 





A ROMANCER’S LOCAL COLOUR. 


Bv S. R. CROCKETT* 

With sixteen Tit n sir at ions by the Author. 


I SING- pliotograpliy—not of the stand, 
but of the hand —not of the stndio, but 
of the larger canopy, tlie shifting crowd, 
the lonely tarn, the nesting bird. The 
practice of this art has added to my life a 
new and wealthy province, a kingdom of the 
earth and air, a sea domain wide as the 
waters to which men go down in ships, a 
large and cheerful place lighted with the 


writing his reminiscences”—the notice in 
the Literary Gossip column intimates without 
any reading between the lines that the afore¬ 
said D.A. iiad better be looked after by his 
friends. But on this occasion I hope that 
my slip from virtue may be forgiven, in that, 
like the French lady’s accident, “ it is such a 
little one ! ” 

From my youth up, then, 1 have been the 



‘‘ VOILA DES AXGLAIs!’' 


light of love and merry with children’s 
laughter. 

But in order fully to explain how photo¬ 
graphy has done this it is necessary to 
be somewhat autobiographical, a privilege 
generally reserved for men in their dotage. 
“ Mr. So-aiid-So, the distinguished author, is 


* Copyright, 1900, by S. R. Crockett, in the United 
States of America. 

June, 1900. 


possessor of a memory which, remarkable 
enough in its way, is yet at times incon¬ 
venient, and even sufficiently exasperating. 
Not that I have ever knowingly ‘‘cultivated” 
it by any of the thousand systems which have 
come into vogue during the last twenty years. 
I never set it a single task with the intention 
of strengthening its fibre. Like my com¬ 
peers at school and college, I learned no more 
than I could help. I never could get any- 

B 2 


3 























4 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


thing accurately “ by heart ” all the days of 
me. It is a slieer impossibility for me to 
“ quote correctly ”—as a distinguished critic 
says every geiitlemau ought to be able to do. 
AVhat is of iiihuitely less moment is that I 
cannot recall any couplet or line of prose 
1 liave ever written. 

Yet for all this I have a somewhat unique 
memory—of a kind. Perhaps you have seen, 
in the darksome sliadow of a mine, a grimy 
little imp sitting deep in the gloom, a pencil 
and notebook in. his liand, a modicum of 
Sixtli Standard arithmetic in his head, taking 
note of the truck-loads of coal as they are 
brought under the pit “eye.” He scuttles 
out into the half-light for a moment, jots 
down a figure or two, and is back in his den 
again before the next trolley comes clatter¬ 
ing by. 

That is just the kind of memory I have— 
with this important exception, that whereas 
this grimy “ checker ” takes note only of 
facts apposite, useful, pertinent to his 
master's purpose, my particular Imp delights 
to let the really serviceable and important 
sli]) unrecorded past, while, if there be any 
series of facts particularly useless and offen- 
si\'ely gratuitous, these he will toil after and 
record with a fulness of detail and a precision 


of statement worthy of a British Museum 
Catalogue. For instance, I am prepared to 
furnish to the Great Northern Railway 
Company a correct list of the carriages com¬ 
posing their East Coast Exj)ress upon the 
last half-dozen occasions on which I have 
travelled by that excellent route. I know 
the numbers of the engines, the order of the 
carriages, the position and general contents 
of the luggage compartments. I could also, 
if called upon, supply the ])olice with fair 
working descriptions of the olticials on duty 
on these occasions, the loiterers about the 
stations, and the passengers, ordinary and 
extraordinary. None of this information 
can ever be of the slightest use to me. It 
does not, happily for myself, remain always 
as vivid, but is gradually relegated to a 
limbo or cobwebby mental garret of similar 
dehris. But yet I do nob forget even 
this, I only mislay it. For scraps from this 
rubl)ish-heap often stand clear again after 
years in the visions of the night, or when I 
get my next slight return of an old malarial 
fever. 

In fact, this Imp of Memory never seems 
to forget anything absolutely, save what is 
useful and necessary. He will carefully 
preserve old washing-lists (marked “ Paid ”), 



GEORGE sand’s COTTAGE : HIGH NOON. 





A ROMANCER'S LOCAL COLOUR. 


5 



THK CATK OF THF (HATKAF: GKOKGF SAXD's VIEW FEOM IIEII WINDOW AS SHE WMOTE. 


pag-es of aiioieiit college text-books scored in 
red and l)lue and green against tlie next 
exam illation-day, the exact appearance of a 
bank of grasses and flowers and brambles 
which all went to mere top-dressing thirty 
long years ago. But ask the fellow to turn 
np sometfiing more nsefnl at a moment’s 
notice, and will he ? No—several thousand 
times no, indeed ! 

He is like onr northern Brownie—the 
domestic spirit and Lob-lie-by-the-fire of a 
Scottish farm-town ; he will work—so long 
as he is not pressed, so long as no one by a 
look or a Avhisper hints that he is expected 
to work. But the instant the slightest com- 
pnlsion is laid n])on him, at the least hint of 
bit 01’ bridle, he firms his legs beneath him 
like a balky horse, and will not move one 
inch either for whip oi* spur. 

It was long before T learned to humonr 
this tricksy Puck, and stern necessity alone 
taught me how. But I have well learned 
now, and during these last years a notable 
London firm has aided me beyond all hope 
in the task of putting the harness upon my 
jerky Pegasus, and helped me also to hold 
the carrots to his nose. 

For to a journeyman of letters, especially 
if he work in the importunate province of 
serial fiction, nothing is more necessary than 


a ready memory. He must caiTy every fact 
and impression, indexed, arranged, and filed 
for reference, each in its own snug cell u]) 
among the grey matter of his brain—or, if 
not there, somewhere else equally handy. 

He is writing, let ns say, a tale of the 
later seventeenth century in Scotland. Tln^ 
long-parted lovers are escaping. The stern 
parent, cruel persecutor that he is, follows 
hot on the trail. Well wots the romancer 
that if the story is to be read with a rush, 
it must be written with a rush. The eye of 
the reader will not brighten or his breathing 
slacken till it well-nigh stands still, unless 
his own fingers trip it featly over the papei*. 
After imagination gets the steam up it will 
not do to stop and find out if there were 
really carriages and carriage-roads in that 
part of the country in HhSO. He must 
know as well as he knows the best ten 
miles of cycling-road in his neighboni’hood 
what bridges were built, what fords over 
great waters were to be crossed, what hills 
the heroine looks upon when like a dove 
she mourns at the windows of her captivity. 
What is more, he must not pause to look up 
Slezer’s invaluable “ Theatre,” nor yet to 
pull down the dog-eared olilong lload-book, 
nor hunt in the crabbed italic of Pout’s 
Atlas for what he wants. Even the most 
















6 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


jog-trot and pedestrian muse will desert him 
on such provocation. Pegasus, an he were 
the veriest cart-horse, is off with a flourish 
of heels. The romancer, in fact, must keep 
all his exhibitory facts in a cabinet with 
labelled di’awers, of which the littings slide 
easily and the contents lie ready to his hand. 
He must make no mistakes, or Nemesis waits. 
The reviewer lias also (generally recently) 
passed the Sixth. Standard. 

There is now no more any seacoast to 
Bohemia. Even the mighty AVizard himself 
dare not write “ (luy Arannering ” without 



TIIK (ilJEAT MOOHISII WATKUWIIEEI,. 


ever having set foot in Galloway, or Defoe 
be content to make his acipiaintance with 
Selkirk’s Island upon the quays of Bristol. 
The critic has made an Iron Age and called 
it realism. Imagination must lurk behind 
the most perfect knowledge. To one belong 
the shining steel muscles and iron bowels of 
the steamship, to another the moving shuttles 
and kindly peat-hearths of a northern village, 
to yet another “ the one-horse ” towns of the 
AVest, ])ast which the steamers with their 
thirty-foot wlieels plough the great Alissis- 
sippi. But of each it is required that his 


facts shall be so and not otherwise. He may 
idealise, but he must know what the real is. 
He may “ learn to drop the ‘ By’r-lady’s ’ from 
every word he slings,” but though he omits 
them on paper they must ring in his ear as 
he writes. 

For this new demand of the closing years 
of the century upon imaginative writers, the 
term “ local colour ” has been transferred 
from the painter’s kindred art. It is con¬ 
venient, but inaccurate, and the term has 
been much almsed. It is by no means 
sufficient to visit a district with notebook 
and camera during a brief summer holiday 
in order to write a book about it, Avith. the 
“ local colour ” ground out to order by the 
mere ‘‘ pressing of the button.” 

For myself, 1 like at the very least three 
years of prolonged residence and extensive 
walking tours, living Avith the people in 
cottage and farm-house, rest-house and road¬ 
side inn, before I begin even to draAV up 
chapter-lieadings. And this is just as 
necessary upon ground Avith every foot of 
Avhich I have been familiar from youth as 
upon the taAAiiy hills of Spain or among the 
Baltic marshes. 

Possessing, as I do, so tricksome and 
fallacious a memory, I had of necessity to 
take strong steps in the matter. And now, 
at the time of Avriting, OA'er tAvo hundred, 
volumes of indexed cuttings, over a thousand 
notebooks, and a great multitude which no 
man can number of shorthand scribblings 
that it AN'ere arrant flattery to call sketches, 
attest at least diligence and good intent. 

ATith a callousness born of many years’ 
suffering at the hands of revieAvers I noAv 
proceed to lay bare the nakedness of the 
land. These methods of mine may do good 
to no human soul, but at least they have a 
certain psychological interest as showing hoAV 
a fairly accurate and serviceably indexed 
memory has been formed out of very 
imperfect materials. 

It is possible that some of my readers 
may have looked into a book called “ The 
Raiders.” If so, they may be interested to 
see the original fountain-pen dot-and-dash 
Avhich served Avhile Avriting to recall the grim 
Alurder Hole on the Avestern shores of .Loch 
Xeldricken (p. 18). 

Or again, here is a memorandum of a few 
lines and several scribbled names, each one 
of Avhich touches the spring of a draAver up 
aloft in the dominions of the Alnemonic 
Imp (p. 18). The lines are nothing, but to 
me the wriiten Avords recall all the great 
array of the central Highlands of Galloway 


A ROMANGER^S LOCAL COLOUR. 


7 


—Ben Yelleray, the Hill of the Eagle, the 
weird and lonesome Nick o’ the Dead 
Wife, the nuirder-hannted Hill of the Star, 
treaclierons, granite-girt Loch Neldricken, 
utmost Enoch, and that vast Dnngeon of 
Bnclian out of whose gigantic cauldron the 
mists l)uhhle up like tlie boiling of a pot — 
these with their tales, legends, crimes, come 
hack to me in all the glory of their changefnl 
beauty as I look at that crabbed arrangement 
of names. 

Still, the method was undeniably cumbrons, 
and 1 had to return again and again to the 
same spot in order to carry a^vay a working 
impression. Indeed, like one of their own 
steadfast ghosts I grew to haunt these liead- 
cpiarters of legend. But I yearned for some 
method more complete, certain, and per¬ 
manent, of recording and hling these 
impressions. 

So in a moment of inspiration it chanced 
that I strolled into a railway terminus. 1 
stood a moment undecided at the bookstall 
and tlien demanded a copy of Naturp. The 
brisk young gentleman behind the counter 
offered me a choice between Tit-EiU and 
the lyrlfink JoiiriKil of riiofoifra]iJiy. Being 
at tlie moment frivolonsly inclined, I chose 


Tin-: TOWN DHUMMKK OK MKNDi:. 




SUNDAY AFTERNOON ON THE RIVER. 






8 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


tlie latter, and lo ! on turning the pages I 
saw foi- the first time a certain mystic 
annomicement. It was a modest advertise¬ 
ment, drawn up with the lack of enthusiasm 
of a builder’s spedtication. Messrs. Blank 
and IBank did not describe themselves as 
the “ (Ireat and Only” of J^hotography. 
Tliey did not offer a selection of cameras at 
prices varying from seven and sixpence to 
fifty ])onnds, each only representing varying 
superlatives of the adjective ‘‘ perfect.” They 
did not abuse other inakers : in fact, they 
employed none of the time-hononred methods 
of the transatlantic ad\ertisei’ who ‘‘keeps 


each other with kindred ignorance, light¬ 
hearted and ^■arious. We had an English 
camera, Swiss chemicals, Belgian plates 
(made by a i)i\ Somebody), German weights 
and measures, a lack of information at once 
complete and cheei'fnl, and onr results were, 
to say the least of it, i*emarkable. 

Yes, they have certainly a right to be 
(tailed so. We anticipated, indeed, some of 
the most remarkable photogi’aphic discoveries 
of the ])resent day. We discovered, for 
instance, that it is possible to develop and 
lix (in spots) at the same time. Colour 
l)hotography is new, is it? Why, I have a 



<;OSSIl*S AT TIIK KOCNTAIN. 


abreast of the times.” All the same, their 
straightforward offer to provide a scientific 
instrument, capable of infallibly producing 
certain results, sent them, direct from the 
station bookstall, not the least constant and 
grateful of their customei’s. 

I was not exactly new to photography. 

From my youth up I had dabbled (liter¬ 
ally) in the gi-eat trouser-staining science. 
Sixteen years before, someone from Edin¬ 
burgh had sent to the Alps the first camera 
with which I had ever any practical acquaint¬ 
ance.^ To this day I possess some of the 
proofs of that eariy enthusiasm. At that 
time I had a friend with me, and we assisted 


print of an ascent of the Matterhorn coloured 
as brilliantly as an anatomical drawing, and 
that without the use of pigments. Another 
of a lady would be even more beautiful if 
the delicate pink of liei' cheeks had not 
overrun, or, as it were, culminated at the 
point of her nose ! Another has been 
supposed by frivolous persons to repi’esent 
Dante’s first view of the infernal regions, 
with attendant de\'ils : and I admit that, 
to the hasty and inaccurate observer, tliere 
is much which might support this view. It 
is really a collection of guides standing at 
gaze upon a mountain summit. The brown 
of their weather-stained leggings is I’emark- 




A ROMANCER'S LOCAL COLOUR. 


9 



A ROADSIDE RITE: AT THE RKIDCE END OE REAlT’AIiiE. 


ably lifelike ; aiicl 1 have little doubt that 
the papers would now be squabbling as to 
which of ns was the inventor and which 
the dupe (the Niepce and Daguerre of colour 
pliotograpliy), had it not been that by some 
chance of chemical action, or imperfect 
washing in hotel basins, the snow-clad 
mountain tops came out a vivid crimson, 
[ndeed, our process broke down just at that 


point. By no possibility could we ])rodnce 
the same result twice running. 

However, let it be said for us that we did 
not intend our prints to come out coloured 
in prismatic hues. And if we achieved so 
much Avithout trying, Avhat might Ave not 
liave done if Ave had really tried ! 

My next adA^enture vfas made Avith a 
roller - him, Avind -’em - round - the - spool - rliclc- 



UOMEWARD IN THE TWILIGHT. 








10 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


and-away-slie-goes machine. I never was 
master of that tricksome instrument. Per¬ 
haps I had not tlie necessary hydraulic 
machinery to keep the film from rolling 
itself as tight as a cigar as soon as the 
developer was poured on. It may be that I 
did not possess the right kind of scissors, 
for the negatives came up uniformly cut 
through the middle, except when the leading 
figure was placed at the side, according to 
the correctest canons of composition. Then 
lie was as accurately divided as Solomon 



TIIK SHADY SIDK OK MKK : LA CAVALElilK, 
CKV KNNKS. 


proposed to do with the babe claimed by 
two motliers. Put in those days I enjoyed 
good spirits, and the number of beautiful 
views I had through the finder reconciled 
me to discovering nothing on the plate. I 
also discovered, wliile in possession of this 
camera, to what a number of uses thin 
roller-film may be put after it is spoiled. It 
makes good lire-crackers when stuffed with 
sporting powder. No Glorious Fourth can 
be truly glorious without them. Cut into 
thin strips it makes good bait for minnows. 


No despicable sticking-plaster may be manu¬ 
factured therefrom. AVith the addition of 
hsh-glue it mends windows to admiration. 
It makes pretty finger-plates for doors. 
ATith it you can construct the loveliest 
navies that sail the waters of any tub, and 
afterwards the boy can foi* a brief space 
“ stand on the burning deck ” as soon as 
you put a match to them. This I'efers to 
the dear old roller-film of ten or twelve 
years ago, which was a thinner, crinkliei*, 
more generally lovable article of commerce. 
Of the new kind I have had no experience. 
iVs my friend Mr. Bassano says, “ You can 
pliotograph with it, but it will not catch 
fish.” Ours acted quite contrariwise. AVe 
caught minnows, but no masterpieces. 

So much for the boasted march of 
improvement! Is not this enough to make 
us all ask ourselves the question—well, I 
don’t know what question — but some 
question ? 

Since then I have tried nearly every kind 
and sort of camera that has been put upon 
the market. I was not happy till I got 
them. I was even less happy until I got 
rid of them—generally (though not invari¬ 
ably) at some pecuniary loss. I became, in 
fact, an amateur of failures. I think I must 
have the finest collection of spoilt plates in 
England. Once I was showing a friend of 
mine a good tomato-frame entirely con¬ 
structed of spoiled plates, and advising 

him always to use that quality of glass for 
his if he Avanted the best table vegetables, 
when he turned to me and said, shaking his 
head, “ Sir, I have no spoilt plates. I never 
make a failure ! ” 

So I Avent into the house and got him a 
little hatchet and a book called, “ The Early 
Years of George AAhxshington.” 

I know Avell that these failures Avere by 
no means tlie fault of the cameras I bought. 
T’hey were due to my oavu carelessness, or 
haste, or idiocy, or something. I know this 
because the advertisements Avere generally 
accompanied by prints Avhich the makers 
had made with tlie identically same camera 
they sold me. Besides which, there Avere 
enlargements six feet square to be seen in 
their AvindoAA's—also made Avith the camera 
by turning it back side first. I could not do 
til is, so I cleared out at a loss. 

No, I could not do these things ; and—to 
tell tlie truth—I don’t think the other felloAvs 
Avho bought second-hand from me could 
either. For they generally Avanted me to 
take the camera back after a Aveek. It took 
them about that time to discover that the 






A ROMANCER'S LOCAL COLOUR. 


11 



GOINO IIOMK FHOM MAHKKF: ON TIIK KI{II)<;K AT AlMlKNToN. 


shutter jarred with a recoil like that of an 
elephant gun ; that the heantifnl changing- 
gear generally changed all the plates at once 
instead of one at a time, or that the 
splendidly adjusted patent springs jammed 
and refused to change any at all. I would 
have none of this, because (so I pointed out) 
this was entirely the other fellow’s fault. 
For the makers continued to produce the 
most beautiful pictures witli the self-same 
instrument, with never a failure (at least, in 
their shop-windows). 

At this point my friends usually asked me 
why I had misled them into the belief that I 
only sold “because I was giving up photo¬ 
graphy.” But again I referred them to the 
maker’s advertisement, and in addition told 
them a little moral tale. 

“ Said the chairman of one Scottish school- 
board to the chairman of another Scottish 
school-board, ‘ AVhy did you give that 
teacher you sent us so good a. character ? 
Why, the fellow is perfectly useless!’ His 
friend replied, ‘ Eh, man, ye’ll hae to gie 
him a far better character before ye get rid 
o’ him 1 ’” 

Thus, through suffering, personal and 
vicarious, the way was being prepared for 
Messrs. Blank and Blank. 

Xow, I am no special pleader. This 
firm has not offered me a percentage on 



DRESSING KID-SKINS AT AHGENTON. 








12 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



sales. (I wish tliey would !) I do not know 
any tiling whatever about them, save that 
tliey have made my woi’k easier and my life 
brighter, and so, with the easy benevolence 
wliieh costs nothing, I am eager that others 
should go and do likewise. There may be 
cameras as good—thongli I have never seen 
tliem, and I believe T liave tried all that 
aspire to that liononr. 

As for my own work, I have now liad 
many stories not only illustrated, bnt even 
suggested, by pictures which I liaxe taken 
witli my pi’ecions new camera. 

I do not say that they were good stories, 
tlioiigh the public appeared willing enough 
to read them—any more than I dare call 
my prints “ pictures,” for fear of my good 
friend Air. Joseph Pennell, avIio, trun¬ 
cheon in hand, is waiting round the corner 
to catch me in the act. All the same, 
I would not accept a considerable sum for 
my collection of some C),0()0 “ records ” 
taken in half a score of countries—few of 
them in large towns, or of buildings which 
have been photographed before, bnt of 


CLIMBING A PALM TREE. 


highways and byways, of land-thieves and 
water-thieves, Portuguese muleteers, Ilierian 
shepherds, naked Berber children playing 
uncier the scanty, edgewise shade of ])alms — 
a thousand types of human folk and a 
thousand nooks and corners of landscape 
never before set down by the ([nick ])encil of 
the sun. 

Look, for instance, at this idyll of the 
street which I seized at the great door of 
the Cathedral of a certain Gascon city 
altogether given up to dull horrors and the 
speculative builder (]>. ;1). ‘‘ Voilit des 

AnfflaD! ” is its name. For a party of Eng¬ 
lish, dust-wrappered and red-Baedeker-ed, 
is gazing upwards at the towers from the 
little s(|uare of the market-place. At the 
door of the Cathedral the old vendor of 
votive candles and ])ictures of the Yirgin 
has been sitting. To her enter a ‘‘friend 
from the country,” market basket in one 
hand, great bine cotton umbrella iii the 
othei*. She sets her treasures dowm to 
remain under the care of the seller of holy 
things while she goes within to say her 
faithful prayers. She has concluded her 


BEGGAR AT VALENCIA. 



A jROJ/AJVOI/E^S LOCAL COLOUR. 


13 


bargainings not nnsuccessfnllj, and now, like 
a good Christian, does not wish to leave the 
town till she is on the best of terms with 
both God and man. 

Bnt the quick eje of her friend, ever 
sednlons after a new thing, is 
canglit bv the strange, nncivilised 
tribe, who yet cany all the money 
of the world in their breeches 
pockets. 

“ Vite! — Vite! ” she cries, turn¬ 
ing her gossip about and pointing 
with a hand in which yon can still 
see the knitting thread". “ See the 
English ! Are they not a people 
fort cur lev,T ? ” 

So the old peasant wojnan fol¬ 
lows the index finger hastily and 
tremulously, and I can see all her 
life in that look. No ! Yon are 
right. None other can see it bnt 
I —all the shrewdness, the self¬ 
repression, the humour which 
through a long life has supported 
her under the strange ways of Pi’ovidence 
and the peculiarities of men. She lost a. son 
(or was it two ?) in the war. It was at Metz 
in the days of the Great Betrayal. 

But she is not yet too old to be amused. 
‘‘ That people should live like that! That 
they should dress so ontlandishly, and go 
staring about at what nobody else ever 
glances at I There is a, great slate loose 
somewhere ! But after all—time speeds—to 
prayers I ” And so presently, with basket 
on arm and blue umbrella tapping the ctobbles. 


do not—because I was there, and glancing 
momentarily along the top of my camera, 
caught the idyll, as like a bubble it hung 
suspended in mid-air. 

No—they are not pictures in any proper 



TIIK MUHDKR IIOLK. 



THE RAIDERS (’Ol'NTRY. 


her Avay out of the city, along 
highways, and so home—where 
be alreadv ravening for his 


she wends 
the dusty 
»Tules will 
dinner ! 

That is only a part of what I see that you 


sense of the word. Mr. Pennell is right. 
But to me at least almost every one of these 
six thousand is a trigger-pull, an “ Open 
Sesame,” a keyword, the label on a full 
drawer which contains many rich things. 

T can only select a few of the most sug¬ 
gestive, nor can T in a Ijrief paper like this 
do the least justice to what they can tell me. 

Here, for instance, is Geoi’ge Sand’s house, 
at Gargilesse, on the (h*ense (p. 4). Down 
those steps the great writer tripped many a 
day just as hot, Avith her morning’s work 
behind her and the (jiiiet of “ My 
Village” all about. Here is tl'.c 
gate of the chdtcuu through whoive 
liars she looked, nor ever ein e:l 
the gi’cat folk Avithin (p. o). It 
also is now given OA^er, if not to 
the moles and bats, at least to tlie 
bleak-boarded aatikIoav and the 
scuttling, indigent rat. 

Hei*e, again, are boatloads of 
summer-Sundaying happy folk on 
the loveliest river in France, Avhere 
all rivers are lovely (p. 7). But 1 
will keep the name of it to myself. 
Here (and one of my most cher¬ 
ished) is the great Moorish Water- 
Avlieel AAFich lifts the precious 
waters of the Segura eighty feet 
into the air, before sending them through 
a myriad runnels and rivulets to make yet 
more luxuriant the voluptuous hnerta of 
Murcia (p. 6). Hundreds of years ago the 
Moors made it. It has been so often 


Cl Ifcji fttudU> 


























14 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


1 ‘epaired that I question if any of tlie original 
wood remains niirotted. But there, with the 
last light of sunset streaming tlirongh it, 
the great circle moves ronnd, slow and 
stately, no derelict, bnt doing each day its 
fnll day’s “ darg,” sponting waste water it 
it is trne at every pore, hnt out of its super¬ 
abundance, not from any infirmity of age. 

Next, almost at random, T lift an impres¬ 
sion of the town drummer of Mende making 
a proclamation of N. DJronlede’s meeting 
(p. 7). The tap of his dimmsticks is still 
as clear in my ear as tlie clatter of his 
pointed sabots over i\\Q pave. 

Again, in the mellow evening light, see 
the sliepherdess of Provence lead her easy- 
minded hock across the famous Bridge of 
Beancaire (wliicli Tartarin so often crossed) 
into the sliade of King Ilcne’s grim fortress 
in the town of Tarascon (p. 9). 

Soft and rose-coloured was the light, and 
the shadows dark purple A\diere the sheep 
cropped the sweet grasses underneath the 
low coping of Beancaire Bridge. 

But whetlier of sliepherdess or of house¬ 
wife, to woman’s work there is no end. 
These three women in the preceding picture 
(p. 8) have been cleansing the hue wool for 
to-morrow’s spinning, and drawing the water 
for tlie kitchen. Only a single stolen minute 
have they stopped to gossip on the bridge 
under the rocky fortress of Gaston de Foix. 
Ihit I was at their back, and there on the 
Bridge of Foix they will stand for many and 
many a year. 

Yet even to such comes rest, and here— 
the picture lies to my hand—is the little 
Camisard village of La Cavalerie, which 
held out so long against all the forces of Le 
Grand Monar([ue (p. 10). See, she sits safe 
and snug behind the wall which the Protes¬ 
tant peasants liuilt with their own hands, 
not one of them being skilled in masonry, 
yet which sufficed to keep his Grace of 
Guise at bay till the dark days were overpast. 

Again, upon the bridge at Argenton (it 
will not be hid from my readers that I love 
all bridges, and am accustomed to lie in 
wait upon them) behold Monsieur pause to 
speak with Madame (p. 11). “Why has 
she not sold her goat—so fine an animal ? 
Farbleu !—it is not to be understood—but 
doubtless Madame has put a large reserve 
price upon so noble a beast.” And in front 
of them sturdy little Jeannette trudges past 
with her umbrella and her yard-long loaf— 
a true staff of life indeed. 


The next picture is somewhat sad, for in 
it you see the latter end of the goat which 
pricked its tail so vivaciously upon the 
bridge over the Creuse (p. 11). A rustic 
furrier dresses the skins which in Eegent 
Street will one day be ticketed “ Finest 
Sukles” at 3s. 11|W. per pair. Meanwhile, 
observe the canine Autolycus and his “ pal,” 
who are in waiting below to snap up un¬ 
considered trifles. 

Tlien, again, we have, at his corner in the 
city of Valencia, a legitimate and accredited 
beggar at his stance (p. 12), his stick on his 
arm and liis bag by liis side—a capitalist 
and conservative he, his “ pitch ” worth 
money of the realm, and his whole life 
certainly provided for among his own kindly, 
charitable, lovable Spanisli townsfolk. 

No, I do not say that all these tilings are 
apparent in the reproductions; only that 
the sight of the prints presses the button, 
and my imagination does the rest. And 
so all my “ records ” are precious. They 
unlock the shut doors of memory and bring 
some of the finest momonts I have lived 
back to me, clear and untarnished out of 
the dust-heap of the years. 

Neither do I affirm (lest some of my 
readers be tempted to send me also a little 
hatchet and a “ Life of George AYashington ”) 
that I make no failures. Nay, rather, from 
the standpoint of the “ competition ” and 
the great photographic exhibitions, it may 
more truly be said that I never make any 
successes. But from the point of view of a 
breadwinning man-of-letters these scraps of 
sun-writing, liieroglyphic to others, are worth 
honest minted gold. In addition to which 
they bring Avith them laughter and tears, 
the brightness of rivers wherein the cliildren 
paddle, or the gloom of storm as the 
thundei’cloud settles doAvn upon the 
mountains. Breaths of high hill air come 
to me as I turn them over. Patches of 
gold and l)hie shine on cathedral pavements, 
Avorn to the quick by the knees of faithful 
Avorshippers. In a Avord, if any desire to 
preserve such-like things against the days 
Avdien lie shall not Avander any more, when 
the gold shall liaAm faded from Avell-beloved 
tresses, and the voices that iioav greet him 
are silent—let him do as I have done. Let 
him go to them that sell—and buy, that he 
may garner precious memories, and, as it 
Avere, bottle his sunshine against the days 
of darkness. For assuredly they shall be 
many. 



Science r. Sentiment 

By J. Ayton Symington. 








“3Fav fvom tbc /Ibabbing Crowb. 


















A. K. STODDART's LKFT HAND. 


W HAT are the qualities that go to 
make up a great cricketer, and are 
they natural or acquired ? As to 
a batsman authorities differ. Prince Ranjit- 
sinhji is of opinion that, given a certain 
natural aptitude, batting can be learned by 
anyone who devotes the necessary time and 
trouble to the art. Other equally good 
judges consider that the great batsman must 
be born, not made. But, however much 
authorities may differ as to the batsman, 
there is no divergence of opinion about the 
bowler. It is universally agreed that great 
bowlers cannot be manufactured. They are 
essentially a product of Nature. 

However, putting aside the question as to 
Avh ether great cricketers are born or made, 
it is quite certain that they possess some 
quality m* qualities Avhich differentiate them 
from “ duffers ” with the bat and ball, and 
it would be an interesting study if one could 
place all tlie first-rate cricketers in the 
country under a microscope to try to dis¬ 
cover whether they possess any outward and 
visible signs of their high calling. Every 
successful batsman must, of course, have a 
good eye. That goes without saying. Any¬ 
one not gifted with good eyesight who 
should trust to assiduous practice to learn 


SOME FAMOUS 
CRICKETERS’ 
HANDS. 

By M. RANDAL ROBERTS. 


how to play Lockwood or ]\[r. Kortright on 
a bumpy wicket would probably have his 
ei’ror brought home to him by becoming a 
subject for a coroner’s inquest. But good 
eyesight is a somewhat intangible possession. 
Yon can’t tell by looking at a man whether 
he has a good eye or not. The ordeal of the 
microscope would probably reveal tliat all 
great cricketers have in common some gift 
besides a keenness of eye. 

Palmistry as applied to cricketers is as yet 
an undeveloped art, though it seems obvious 
enough that, as the hand and Avrist play such 
an important part in cricket, the hands of 



A WELL-KNOWN PKOP'KSSIONAL RATSMAN’s RIGHT 
HAND. 


17 


C 







18 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




G. McOKFXIOK’s lkit hand. 


great batsmen and bowlers must differ in 
some way from those of mere ordinary 
mortals. The writer is not a palmist, bnt 
it occurred to him lately tliat a comparison 
of the liands of famous cricketei’s iniglit 
reveal some interesting facts, and with this 
object in view he souglit tlie aid of what 
may be called typical players—that is to say, 
bowlers, wicket-keepers, and batsmen, both 
hard hitting and of the steady order. Most 
of the cricketers to whom he applied entered 
so readily into his project that his task was 
an easy one. 

In a subject of this sort it is, of course, 
possible to make only a very rough and 
ready classi 11 cation, but judging from the 
number of hands which came under my 
inspection I should be inclined to think 
that, speaking generally, there is a family 
resemblance in point of formation between 
the hands of most great batsmen. The like¬ 
ness, I admit, is not striking, but it is 
sufficiently strong to indicate that, provided 
you know the owner is a cricketer, he is a 
batsman and not a bowler. 

Mr. Stoddart’s hand, a photograph of 
which is reproduced here, may be taken as 
the typical hand of a batsman. I am 
aware, of course, that Mr. Stoddart is an 


exceedingly useful bowler, but it is his 
batting and not his bowling that has won 
him his great name. It will be noticed that 
the great length of finger which is so strongly 
marked in most bowlers is absent. It is 
essentially a well proportioned hand, though, 
to borrow the language of the racing-stable, 
it is inclined to be on the small side. G-reat 
batsmen are evidently not a splay-fingered 
race. i\Ir. Stoddai’t’s hands are characteristic 
of their owner. They have a thoroughly 
neat and workmanlike appearance. In 
one important particular they differ very 
materially from the hands of nearly every 
cricketer who submitted to the camera ; they 
do not bear the faintest trace of the rough 
usage they must have undergone during 
Mr. Stoddart’s dozen years of experience of 
fielding against all sorts and conditions of 
batsmen. 

The next photograph gives an excellent 
illustration of the honourable scars which 
many less fortunate cricketers than Mr. 
Stoddart display. It is the photograph of 
the right hand of a very well known pro¬ 
fessional batsman, who, however, does not 
wish his name to be mentioned. Old 
cricketers can remember how before the days 
of batting-gloves it was no uncommon sight 














SOME FAMOUS CRICKETERS'' HANDS. 


19 



afc Tiord’s and elsewhere to see a player who 
liad been badly hit on the knuckles stooping 
down and wiping the l)lood off his fingers in 
the dust and then contiiining his innings 
none the worse for his wounds. We may 
not see such a sight nowadays, but all 
the same it is plain enough from the 
accompanying pliotograph that tlie modern 
cricketer recpiires just as much pluck as the 
players of fifty years ago. llatting-gloves 
may protect the batsman’s knuckles, but 
what about the fieldsman’s palms ? The 
owner of the hand liere reproduced, during 
the seven years lie has been playing first- 
class cricket, has had his first linger broken 
once, liis middle finger dislocated twice, 
while tlie scar, whicli can be plainly seen in 
the photograph, is the tell-tale mark of what 
the seams of a cricket ball can do when a 
fieldsman rashly interferes with tlie progress 
of a red-hot drive from the bat of a Jessop 
or a C. I. Thornton. 

From a mere spectacular point of view 
wicket-keepers’ hands are distinctly dis¬ 
appointing. That the hands of the wicket¬ 
keeper receive more continuous buffeting 
than those of any other cricketer is an 
indisputable fact, and one might reasonably 
expect to find in every “keeper’s” hands 


some unmistakable evidence of their owner’s 
calling. But this expectation will no.t stand 
the test of cold fact. Two veiy interesting 
pairs of hands are reproduced here, Mr. 
McGregor’s and Mr. A. E. Newton’s. Readers 
of the Wixnsoii have no need to be told that 
both these cricketers are in the very front 
rank of wicket-keepers, and that both of 
them have stood behind the stumps for 
many years to almost every type of bowler. 
But yon could not tell this from their hands. 
Mr. Newton’s hands are as free from bruises 
as Mr. Stoddart’s, and Mr. McGregor’s are 
almost as equally unmarked. In fact, except 
for a slight twist in the top joint of the 
first finger of his left hand, the ball has 
apparently spent itself in vain against Mr. 
McGregor's hands. It might be supposed 
that the scatheless condition of his hands is 
due to the fact that since Mi*. McGregor 
has played for Middlesex the county has had 
really no very fast bowler to knock him about; 
but it must be remembered tliat for the first 
four years of Mr. McGregor’s wicket-keeping 
life lie had to “ take ” some of the fastest 
bowling in England, lie was in the Cam¬ 
bridge Eleven at the same time as S. M. J. 
lYoods, and in those days, before he took 
to making a thousand runs in a season. 


A. E. NEWTOJi’S LEFT HAND. 


A. E. newton’s KIGJU’ HAND. 



20 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




S. M. J. woods’ kight hand. 

“ Sammy ” was one of the fastest bowlers in 
the world. 

The belief, however, that wicket-keepers’ 
hands show signs of the battering tliey have 
to endure is not altogether a popular delusion. 
The writer remembers seeing tlie hands of 
J. M. Blaekham, the famous Australian, a 
few years ago. Nearly every finger on each 
hand had been either broken or badly dis¬ 
located, and they presented the appearance of 
a gnarled and knotted branch of a tree more 
than an ordinary hand. Wood, too, the 
veteran Surrey wicket-keeper, shows undeni¬ 
able tokens of having been through the 
wars. Still, taken all round, wicket-keepers’ 
hands look far more presentable than is 
generally supposed. 

The next photograph, unfortunately, 
hardly does justice to its original. 
“ Sammy’s ” (nobody ever dreams of calling 
him Mr. Woods) hands are like their owner ; 
they must be seen to be appreciated, but 
they are just the pair of hands you would 
expect to find at the end of the arms of the 
most popular cricketer in England. Their 
massiveness and general expausiveness sug¬ 
gest their breezy and lion-hearted owner ; 
they look the sort of hands that in a rough 
and tumble you would much prefer to have 
on your side than on the other fellow’s. The 


A FAMOUS LEFT-HAND PROFESSIONAL BOWLER’s 
HAND. 


very sight of S. M. J. AYoods’ hands forbids 
the thought of kid gloves. A Yiking in a 
frock-coat would be about as appropriate a 
figure. What a professional palmist would 
divine from the lines of this hand I am 
unable to guess ; long life would be a fairly 
safe prophecy ; but the most casual observer 
cannot but be struck with the enormous 
length of the palm compared with size of 
the fingers. In the case of nearly every 
other bowler whose hands I examined while 
preparing this article, the length of the 
fingers was a very conspicuous feature, but 
in this respect S. M. J. Woods’ hands are an 
exception to the rule that long fingers make 
good bowlers. 

The canon, by the bye, that the excellence 
of bowling is in a direct ratio to the length 
of the bowler’s fingers must be taken as 
applying mainly to fast bowlers. The hands 
of most of the slow bowlers who submitted 
to my examination were somewhat inclined 
to stumpiness. This was particularly the 
case with left-hand bowlers. The accom¬ 
panying illustration shows the hand belong¬ 
ing to a very famous left-hand bowler 
indeed. The amount of break which this 
bowler can get on the ball is popularly 
supposed to be a natural gift, and to be in 
some way or the other communicated by 








SOME FAMOUS CRICKETERS' HANDS, 


21 



recoirni^’ed as one of the best of onr left- 
handed batsmen. The bandage which 
appears in the photograph on Mr. Hill’s 
finger is not a perpetual ornament; the 
photograph was taken last year, before he 
had time to recover from the wound he 
received while playing for Somerset against 
Oxford University. The shape of the hand 
is what I call tlie typical batting hand. It 
is small, rather short in tlie finger, and sup¬ 
ported on a sinewy wrist. 

If anyone cares to examine tlie two photo¬ 
graphs, he will find a most remarkable 
resemblance between A. E. Stoddart’s and 
R. C. N. Palairet’s hands. The shape of 
the fingers in both hands is almost identical, 
and, except that Mr. Stoddart’s hands are 
rather shorter in tlie palm, it would puzzle a 
“ palmologist ” to detect any difference 
between them. This is all the more re¬ 
markable as the hands of nearly every bats¬ 
man who came under the gaze of my camera 
possessed some strongly marked distinctive 
feature of their own, which made it quite 
impossible to confuse them with those of any 
other cricketer. 


V. T. HILl/s RIGHT HAND. 

some peculiar formation of his fingers, but 
judging from the appearance of his hands I 
should feel inclined to think that this 
bowler’s success is due more to art than 
nature. As can he seen from a glance at 
the photograph, there is nothing whatever 
unusual in the foi*mation of the hand, 
except, perhaps, that the thumb is abnormally 
bent hack and slightly flattened. But as the 
thumb does not play a very important part 
in the propulsion of the l)all, the peculiar 
shape of this bowler’s thumb may safely he 
neglected in forming any theories as to what 
his particular skill depends on. 

In 1892, Mr. Yernoii Hill immortalised 
himself by scoring a century in the Oxford 
and Cambridge match by some of the 
hardest hitting ever seen on Lord’s ground. 
Mr. Hill’s hand will he interesting if only 
because century makers in the ’Varsity match 
are few and far between. But in addition 
to that particular feat he has long been 


R. C. N. PALAIRKT's LEFT HAND. 









2ln IHlicn. 

By Fannie Moody, 







THE FATHER CONFESSOR. 

By MRS. CLEMENT SHORTER.* 

Illustrated by Frances Ewan. 


“ T HAJ) thought for a glad moment you 

I loved me. A week ago I hoped for 
a different answer. Will yon tell me 
why this is ? ” 

“ A week ago. That is a long time.” 

“ I see—yon had not then met him.” 

“ No, I had not met him ; and yet I seem 
always to have known him.” 

“ You do not know him ; you idealise. 
Your vivid imagination, your love of romance 
and beauty, blind you. He is cruel and 
unscrupulous.” 

“ How dare you speak to me so ! ” 

“ I dare because I love. Oh, it is not 
jealousy. Only give him up, and I will go 
away where you will see me no more. Can 
you not read his eyes ? They are so cruel. 
He would kill a person if he hated him.” 

“ His eyes—they are not cruel ; they are- 
full of love, and he does not hate me.” 

‘‘ He would kill a woman if he grew tired 
of her.” 

“ Oh, you must not speak so ! I love 
him, and he has asked me to be his wife.” 

“ Good-bye ! ” 

“ Good-bye.” 

* * -X- * 

The priest stood at the bedside of the 
dying woman ; he looked down upon her 
and wondei’ed at her face. Her hair had 
turned pure white—and she so young. Her 
eyes were the eyes of a hare, full of watching, 
always seeming to be expecting some sudden 
fright. Her nervous hands, for ever twitch¬ 
ing, kept pulling at the blankets and moving 
unceasingly. 

“ I sent for you,” she said with a weak 
smile, “ to tell you how wrong you were. 
He has been good to me and loves me so. 
I pray God for his sake not to let me die.” 

Tlie door was flung open and a man 
staggered in. The woman stretched out her 
thin arms to him—and then saw his face. 
She gave a shrill death cry, and, rising from 
her bed, fell towards liim. The priest made 
a step to raise her, but drew back, giving 
the man his place, haying the dead woman 
back on.the bed, the man broke into loud sobs. 


* C<)pyri.i;ht, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 


“ What has happened,” said the stern 
priest, “ that you burst into a sick-room 
with your face like that ? ” 

“ They said she was worse, and I rushed 
down afraid.” 

“ You have frightened her to death.” 

The man grew as white as she was. 

“ Frightened her to death ? ” he repeated. 

“ Look at your face,” said the priest. 

The man stood before the glass. Up the 
left side of his throat and face there seemed 
to be a great red gash ; the blood from it 
was on his collar and sliirt. 

“ Oh,” he said, ‘‘I must have cut myself. 
I was shaving when the maid rushed up to 
say my wife was worse, and had sent foi* a 
priest.” 

He drew a wet cloth across his face {ind 
the crimson was gone ; only a little scratch 
to account for all that blood. 

The priest closed the door and went out 
into the night. 

For the second time that year the priest 
stood in the same house, and this time, too, 
by the bedside of a dying person. Now it 
was the man who lay there, broken where 
the wheels of a heavy van had crossed him. 
The tortured creature cried to the priest, 
“ Confession—confession ! ” 

“ I am here,” the priest answered. He 
bent his head nearer the pillow. 

“You see that book—that book,” whispered 
the man. 

“ I see no book.” 

“There, upon the table—L)e Quincey’s 
‘ Essay.’ ” 

“ Yes ; ‘ Murder as One of the Fine Arts.’ 
What of it ? ” 

“ I read it, and 1 thought of murder as a 
fine art. No poisons, no knives, no stifling 
for me. I planned a murder that no one 
could hang me for or prove against me. A 
fine art I Oh, F had found the art. Hear 
me—hear me ! ” 

“ T hear you.” 

“ Shall 1 ever be forgiven ? Nobody ever 
suspected me ; i<he did not suspect.” 

“ She ? ” 

“ A woman. I will tell you the story. 
Come neai’er. Why do you look at me like 


2.3 



24 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


that ? I do not know you. Do yon hate 
me ? Are you not a priest ? ” 

“ Yes, a priest, God forgive me ! Continue 
in peace ; I am listening.” 

“ Yes, yes. Oh, Heavens, what torture ! 
My murder had no suffering like this, like 
the death You give me, 0 God ! ” 

“Hush, hush! be patient. It is your 
punishment. Pray for forgiveness.” 

“ I will pray—yes, yes ; but I must tell 
you first of my sin. I must confess.” 

“ I am listening.” 

“ I will tell you a story—mind, it is a 
story. Oh, it conld not have been a murder 1 
No one could say it was a murder. No jury 
could hang me, even if they knew all. My 
excuse—youth, and the indissolubility of the 
marriage bond. I was very young when I 
married.” 

“ And she ? ” 

“ She ? Oh,yes,she was very young, too; but 
I did not know my own mind—did not know 
that in a feAV years I should meet a woman 
who would be all the world to me, and whom 
I could not have. I would have flown to 
her, but she would not take me ; and the 
dull tie that I hated l)Ound me down.” 

“ AVliy did you marry ? ” 

“ AVliy ? Oh, I loved my wife once in a 
way—with a boy’s love. And there was 
another lover after her always. The rivalry 
made me more eager, more blind to my true 
feelings. It was winning her from him I 
thought of, more than gaining her myself.” 

“So liglitly held, so bitterly deplored,” 
tlie priest muttered. 

“ You bless me, father ? ” the man con¬ 
tinued. “ I want it. Pray for my ease. I 
am in torture ; my sin is great. Soon after 
I married, my life became unbearable. At 
first I did not notice how dull and uninterest¬ 
ing my wife was ; but when I saw the other 
woman my heart leaped out to her, and I 
knew I had met my fate. Then my home 
life became more and more dreary. The 
dull monotony of domesticity rose up around 
me and cliained me down. I grew to hate 
my wife’s face. With its never-varying expres¬ 
sion of sweetness and prettiness. She was 
always the same ; she met me with a smile 
every day I came home, and bade me good¬ 
bye with the same smile at the gate in the 
morning. I knew it so well and hated it so. 
She had a mouth like a young child’s, and 
when she smiled a dimple would come-” 

“ Yoiu’ crime,” said the stern priest. 

“ Yes—yes ! I hated her when I com¬ 
pared her with the grand woman with the 
changing soul of the sea—the woman I 


wanted and could not get, because of this 
little foolish child I bad married. And 
there was no way to reach her, except across 
the dead body of my wife—no way that she 
would accept. So I thought and thought, 
until in my mind there grew up a plan. I 
knew my wife’s heart was not strong. She 
had a way of putting her hand upon her 
breast when she got any sudden fright, and 
it suggested an idea to me. It was then 
that I read De Quincey’s ‘ Murder as a Fine 
Art,’ and I knew I could do better than 
anything I read there. I brought her away 
to a little watering-place, not far from the 
city. The other woman was there. We 
went for long walks along the high cliffs. 
Once I walked by the edge as close as I 
dared, watching the effect on my wife. She 
grew white and nervous, begging me to come 
away. But the other woman only laughed, 
and that made me mad. Trying to make 
her fear for me, also, I walked too near the 
edge, and the ground crumbled beneath me. 
When next I knew anything I found the 
other woman bending over me and laughing. 
I rose to my feet and found I was not hurt. 

“ ‘ Come, come ; you are all right,’ the 
woman said. ‘ You only fell a little way. I 
knew you could not be hurt.’ 

“ Vexed at her calmness, I looked round for 
my wife. She was walking up and down be¬ 
hind me, holding her hands across her breast. 

Oh,’ she said, ‘you frightened me so 1 
My heart beats so strangely.’ 

“ For some moments she could not calm 
herself; then she turned to me with her 
smile, holding my hands. 

“ ‘ Did I frighten you ? ’ she said. ‘But 
my heart—I thought it would not beat 
again. I thought you had fallen over the 
cliff into the sea. I did not know there 
Avas a ledge only a few feet down.’ 

“ That was my first trial; half-accidental, 
but wholly successful. What did you say, 
father ? I did not hear you. Your hand is 
hurting mine ; take it away. 

“ From that time I followed out my idea. 
It was so easy. One day a long run for a 
train ; the next a climb over a steep hill. 
One night a lamp overturned and the 
bed on fire ; and the next a pretended 
alarm of thieves. One evening, when she 
Avas alone, I dressed as a tramp and 
threatened her till she SAVooned. One 
morning I purchased a savage dog and let 
it loose through the house. So things Avent 
on, till the constant AA^ear on her nerves and 
heart began to tell. And all through she 
never suspected me, all through I never 













26 


THE ]YTXDSOR MAGAZINE. 


laid my hands upon her in violence. I 
travelled with her in other countries, when 
iny opportunities here were getting few ; and 
the other woman came as her friend. All 
through the time her clever eyes were upon 
me, and I did not know if she knew or not. 
[f I spoke of my love for her she drew 
herself away, saying, ‘ He silent; yon are a 
married man.’ Hut I felt that, if it were 
not for my wife, she would have loved me, 
and the thought of it made me savage. 
Think of it—only one life between you and 
the woman you love ! Hut you are a priest; 
what do you know of love ? Oh, the grand 
woman, with eyes changing as the heavens ! 
And she as far from me as the stars, parted 
l}y that other face which must be always with 
me, with its baby mouth and the dimples 
that came when she smiled-” 

‘‘ Your story,” said the stern priest. 
“ Proceed.” 

“ Pity me, father, you cannot know the 
temptations of the world or the pity of love. 
I had so long to wait, and I never touched 
her in violence. Slie loved me always and 
passed away in peace. 

“ One day, in a foreign country, a servant 
killed a poisonous snake and drew it along 
the ground as he passed to burn it amongst 
the refuse of the garden. I saw my wife 
come and set her chair across the track he 
had left. 1 went out of the house, saying 
that it was fate. I knew the mate of the 
snake would follow the scent, seeking for 
its companion, and would find my wife in 
its way. Do you pray for me, father? I 
cannot hear you—yon speak so low. AVlien 
1 returned she was sitting, white and statue¬ 
like, without a movement, and round her 
ankle was curled the body of a snake. I 
would have rushed to her, causing her to 
rise, and thus have ended it all, for my 
heart was evil Avithin me that day. Hut the 
other woman came to the door that minute, 
and rested her eyes u])on me, so that 1, too, 
stood transfixed, afraid to move. She bore 
in her hands a saucer of milk and laid it 
down as near the serpent as she dared, 
thrusting it slowly forward with a stick, all 
the time whispering to my Avi.'e, ‘ Don’t move, 
don’t speak, for your life I ’ The snake 
uncurled and glided fi’om her foot at the 
smell of the milk, and the other Avoinan, 
with a blow of the stick, lu'oke its back.” 

‘‘ (lod bless hei‘ ! ” the ])riest said aloud. 
God bless her ! ” 

“ Ah, yes,” said the dying man, “ she was 
good, and she would have saved me from 
murder if she could. Once it struck me 


that she only followed us to protect my wife 
from me. Hut it was only for a moment. 

I could have killed them both if it were so. 
Do you think it could have been so ? You, 
priest, tell me it was only because she loved 
me.” 

Hut the priest did not answer. He sat 
with his head upon his breast, his hands 
clenched. 

‘‘ Prom the hot countries,” continued the 
man, ‘‘ I went to the cold. I took her upon 
the glaciers of Switzerland, and 1 vowed in 
my heart she should not return from them. 
Once in crossing a deep crevasse my foot 
slipped, and in saving myself I threw her over. 
Hut the other Avoman turned, and I replaced 
the knife I had taken from my pocket and 
drcAV her by the rope back to safety. After 
that the other Avonian Avent behind, and AAdtb 
my wife betAveen us I dared not try again, 
for the rope Avould bear the love of my 
heart upon it then. Hut this is my story, 
and Avhat have I more to say ? I came 
home, and my wife and tlie Avoinan I loved 
came, too, the chain that kept me from her 
still unbi’oken. My wife was then a shadow 
of her former self, shaken, and frightened 
as a hare. Hut I never ceased from my 
plan, and at last she broke down beneath it 
and illness came upon h.er. It Avas Avhen she 
lay almost without hope of recovery that I 
drew blood from my cheek, scattering it over 
my face and neck, and staggerc^d into her 
room, so that AAdien she saAV me in her Aveak- 
ness she gave a great cry and fell back dead. 
And yet I sAvear to you I never laid my 
hand upon her in violence, nor did she 
snspect. And 1 have Avritten to the other 
Avoman many times, but she comes not, nor 
Avhen I Avrote saying that my Avife Avas 
dying did she reply. Hut she will come noAV 
that I am free. Say it Avas not murder, 
father, for I neA'er laid my hand upon my 
Avife in violence, and death may have been 
from natural causes. Hut I Avill recover, 
noAV that I am free, for the AVoman I love, 
free from the face of the AVoman I married— 
Avitli her baby mouth AAdiere the dimples came. 
Bless me, father, for I am Aveary.” 

The priest arose and bent over the bed. 
He laid his Avhite hands around the throat 
of the man, but the man smiled back on 
him in victory. He vA^as already dead. 

The priest fell upon his knees by the 
bedside—he held a crucifix in his hands. 
Tiaying his forehead upon it he fought Avith 
his soul, and when he arose in the pale 
morning light, upon his AA'liitebroAV the figure 
of the Crucified Avas seen, red in his blood. 



OUR RESERVE 
OF GENERALS 

Bv Kobkrt M/U’jluav. 


T ^'T^JI ILE all are agreed that war is a 
V Y great evil to any people, yet it 
must l)e admitted, Tolstoi and 
the Peace Society notwithstanding, that in 
the present condition of the Avorld for a 
nation to be canglit unprepared for war may 
be a greater evil still. From the latter 
point of view we can readily see that the 
nnmerons conflicts—practically one every 
year—in Avliich the British Empire has for 
the past half-century been engaged up and 
dowm tlie globe have, at least, laid the 
advantage to ns of making our Army, in 
greater or less degree, familiar with the 
conduct of campaigns and the art of war. 



I*h()i<) /;//] [^KUiott tf: Fl'}/. 

<;knkhai. sir evkuyn wood, g.c.h., o.c.m.o., v.c. 
Adjutant-General to the Forces. 



Photo hy'] {^Elliott «f- Fry. 

GENKRAU SIR RICHARD UARRISO>\ K.C.B. 
Inspector-General of Fortifications. 


Xor is this less true even if, as is generally 
the case, each separate war has its own 
special difficulties in new problems to be 
grappled with and solved; for tlie experience 
gained in one war in the handling of large 
bodies of troops, in the ma-nagement of 
ti’ansport, and in the commissariat—features 
which are common to all campaigns—is of 
tlie highest value in any otliei* war. 

Tlie Ihltish Army has at this moment a 
larger ])roportion of generals who have seen 
active service in the field than can be found 
in that of any other country. Nearly foi'ty 
generals of x'arious grades have taken part in 
the ivar in South xVfrica; but in what T have 
ventured to call our “ reserve ” of generals, 
officers who liave not been in the ])resent 
war, and who number considerably more 
than a hundred, there are very few whose 
recoi’ds do not include two or three 
campaigns. India has frecpiently been 
s])oken of as the training-ground of our 
Army, and it cei'tainly has gi\'en us some 
splendid soldiers. Most of our generals 
have served there in one capacity or 
another, and not a few of them have had 
charge of important opei'ations either on 
its frontiers, or in Afghanistan, or Burma. 
There ai’e constantly ipiwards of fifty of our 
generals in India, and, as any Army man 
will tell you, “ Indian men are always good 
men,'’ meaning thereby that they are 
experienced and dficient commanders, it 


27 




28 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


follows that in them we have a large and 
reliable portion of our reserve of generals. 
During the last twenty years there have 
been several campaigns in Egypt and the 
Soudan, each of which has helped to trans¬ 
form men who otherwise must have been 



Photo by] {Russell & Sons. 


GENKUAL SIR RAKER RUSSELL, K.C. B., K.C.M.G. 
Commanding Southern District since 1898. 

mere closet-students of warfare into trained 
and tried leaders of armies in the field. 

It will be evident, therefore, that our forces 
have at their head generals who have had 
excellent opportunities either in India, or in 
Egypt, or in both, of perfecting themselves at 
first-hand in their business. And while it 


is no doubt the case that the gi*eat soldier, 
like the great poet or the great anybody else, 
is born and not made, still it cannot be 
disputed that knowledge derived from 
personal observation of actual warfare must 
be of enormous service ; and in this very 
valuable knowledge our generals are rich. 
No]*, numerically considered, are they an 
insignificant body. Therci are on the Active 
List nearly one liundred and sixty generals, 
of wliom fifteen are of the full raidv, thirty 
or more are lieutenant-generals, and a 
hundred and ten are majoi’ - generals. 
Drigadier-generals are not usually included 
in the list of “generals,” but if they 
are added, then our Army has close upon 
two hundred generals. (I have said nothing 
about our field-marshals, of whom there are 
eight, although our two most distinguished 
generals. Lord Wolseley and Lord Roberts, 
are amongst them, because they form a class 
by themselves.) Thus, if we deduct the 
forty—the actual number is less—who are 
in South Africa, our reserve of generals is 
something like a hundred and fifty strong. 
Twelve of these, however, are generals of 
Marines, who never have “ commands.” 

Among so large a number of generals, it 
may surely be said without offence that all 
have not the same ability or the same 
particular gifts, but there can be no question 
that most gf them are capital soldiers ; some 
of them, indeed, have proved themselves 
remarkably able and brilliant men. Except 
in altogetlier unusual circumstances, a general 
in the British Army—or, for that matter, 
in any army—can hardly be a young man ; 
and while some of our generals have reached 
their I’ank earlier than others in the service, 
their average age is rather above than under 
fifty. All of them have had to “ work their 
Avayup”—a process Avhich has taken them 
from thirty to forty years. Some of them, 
perhaps, are physically not quite so “ fit ” 
as Avhen they Avere younger ; but the condi¬ 
tions Avhich snrround an officer’s life are 
such as to make him as good a man practi¬ 
cally at fifty, or even sixty, as a civilian Avho 
is many years his juuioi‘. A general must 
be able to be in the saddle for many hours 
at a time if necessary, and the “ mobility ” 
(shall Ave call it ?) of our generals in South 
Africa shoAA^s hoAv Avell they can stand this 
test. 

Old military men tell me that the relations 
between generals and their commands have 
altered very much for the better in the 
Army during the last twenty or thirty years. 
Formerly a general had very little real 





OUR RESERVE OF GENERALS. 


29 




Photo byl [Elliott & Fry. 

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SIR FRANCIS GRENFELL, 
G.C.M.G., G.C.B. 

Impector-General of Auxiliary Forces. 

The personal element has always entered 
very largely into warfare ; so innch so, in 
fact, that nearly all campaigns are identified 
with tlie names of individual generals. In 
onr resei've of generals there must needs he 
many differences of disposition, of tempera¬ 
ment, and of cliaracter in the men who are 
comprised witliin it, and it is well that it 
should he so. The point to notice is that 
the field of clioice is wide enough to cover 
all tlie operations of war, no matter what 
their scope. During tlie first part of the 
war in South Africa, the foreign Press, in its 
own kindly and friendly Avay, flouted and 
sneered at onr generals. They even Avent 
so far as to say that President Kruger had 
issued orders to the effect that his soldiers 
were on no account to shoot at our generals 
—hecanse they AA'ere of more use to him 
living than dead.” Put Avhen our rcserA^e 
of generals Avas drawn upon, and Lord 
Roherts and Lord Kitchener appeared upon 
the scene of action, Avith Avhat result is now 
knoAvn to all the earth, these flouts and 
sneers Avere replaced hy the grudging acknoAV- 
ledgment of the fact that, indisputably, 
Ave had generals Avho were generals indeed. 

The space AAdiich can be given to an 
article in a magazine is naturally so circum¬ 
scribed that it is impossible to do more 


connection Avith, or influence upon, his 
troops, and took but a comparatively insig¬ 
nificant part in their instruction. He used 
to be dreaded as a great magnate Avhose 
principal function Avas the carrying out of 
the annual inspection, and of course he AA’as 
a familiar feature on a field day ; but the 
man himself Avas an unknown quantity. It 
is quite otherwise to-day. The general now 
knOAA^s his officers and men, and they knoAV 
their general. In no other country is there 
so much sympathy between commander and 
command as there is in ours, and this applies 
to the Avhole body of our generals. The 
outbreak of Avai‘ —often sudden, sometimes 
unexpected—is not the best time for the 
exercise of calm judgment, though it is just 
at such a crisis that it is needed most; and 
it is unquestionably an excellent feature in 
our Army that our generals are none of 
them “ ornamental ” soldiers, holding them¬ 
selves apart in a sort of splendid isolation, 
as it Avere, from their men. On the con¬ 
trary, knoAving Avhat their men can do, they 
are not likely to be either hurried or flurried. 


Photo by"] [Elliott cfc Fry. 

MAJOR-GENERAL H. LE GUAY GEARY, C. B. 
Commanding Belfast District. 









80 


TEE WlXDSOn MAGAZINE. 




rhoto hy] imuott d- Fry. 

M AJOK-<;iCNEHAr. SIR .FOllX AR1)A<;II, K.C.I.K. 

Dir&'lor of MiUlary Jiitelliyeiire, lla?’ (ip'ire. 

most soldier of the Empire, as witness 
Asliaiitee (1878-4), Sontli Africa (1870), 
Egypt (1882), and the Soudan (1884-0). 
It is perhaps mainly in eoniiection with the 
victory of 'rel-el-Kehir that his name Avill 
go down to posterity. In 18Do he was 
appointed Commaiider-in-Chief; and his has 
been the vast and tremendous responsil)ility 
of organising and sending out the large 
army Ave have accumulated in South Africa 
—a feat which, in its own way, is without 
a ])arallel in the history of the Avorld. In a 
former number of the AAAxdsoii there was 
given an account of Lord AVolseley at the 
AVar Olhce. 

The first name on the active list of 
generals is that of H.R.H. Pi’iuce Christian 
of Schleswig-Holstein. Xext comes that of Sir 
Eohert Biddulph, G.CML, O.C.Al.G., Colonel- 
Commandant of the Royal Artilleiy, who 
is at the ]U’esent time Goveiaior of Gibraltar, 
a [)ost for Avhich he is pre-eminently Avell 
litted, as he is one of the best artillerymen 
of our day. He is a thoroughly good man, 
and in tlie event of a Euro])ean war, 
improbable, but always possible, no better 
general could be in command of the “ Rock.” 
The Duke of Connaught, who ranks iinme- 
diat'dy after Sir Robert, won many golden 
()|)iiiions when he Avas in command at 
Aldershot; and it is A'ery avcII known that 
H.R.H. would very much have preferred 


here than to group together a fcAV of the 
most prominent members of our reserve of 
generals, with a brief glance at the more 
striking or more interesting periods of their 
respective careers. 

Eield-Marslial Lord AVolseley, the Coni- 
mander-in-Chief, is facto our principal 
general, and would, no doubt, take the held 
Avere it necessary or expedient. Born in 
1888, he entered the Army in 1852. His 
recoi'd of service therefore extends over 
nearly half a century. Lord AVolseley has 
been so constantly in the public eye for 
many years past that even the most casual 
man in the street knoAvs something about 
him. The present generation may have 
forgotten his earliest exploits in the Burmese 
Avar of 1852-8, in Avhich, a mere lad of 
twenty, he distinguished himself greatly, or 
ill the Ci’imea, Avhere his services Avere 
meutioiied in despatches. In lioth of these 
Avars he AA'as se\'erely Avounded. The jMiitiny 
seems to most of us noAvadays far aAvay ; he 
Ava.s [iresent at the relief of LuckiiOAV. FiA'e 
years later he AA’as in China, and took ])art 
ill the assault of the Taku forts. His first 
great chance came in the Red River Expedi¬ 
tion in 1870, of Avhicli he Avas in command ; 
for his successful conduct of that affair he 
Avas made K.C.]\I.G., and since then it is not 
too much to say that he has been the fore- 


JOioto hy] [Elliott d- Fry. 

MA.IOR-riKXKRAL SIR WTTJ.TAM BUTLER, K.C.B. 
Commandiny at Dei'onjyort. 





OUR RESERVE OE GENERALS. 


31 


South Africa to Ireland, wliei’C lie is now 
Coniinaiider-in-Cliief. The Duke is an 
ardent soldier, and inherits tliose military 
qualities which have ever distinguished our 
Royal line. 

Sii’ Henry Evelyn Wood, the Adjutant- 
General of the Army, who has the Victoria 
Cross among his numerous orders and 
decorations, is one of the most prominent 
figures in our resei’ve of generals. Sir 
Evelyn entered the Army liy way of the 
Navy, so to speak, serving in the Naval 
Brigade in the Crimea, where he was severely 
wounded. It was in India, in 1858, that 
he won his V.C., “for having, during the 
action at Sindwalio, when in command of a 
troop of the 3rd Light Infantry, attacked 
with much gallantry, almost siar/h-ha/ided, 
a body of rebels who had made a stand, and 
whom he routed,” and for other gallant and 
courageous acts. He was subseipiently with 
Wolseley both in Ash an tee and in South 
Afi'ica. On the death of Sir George Colley 
he became Governor of Natal and Coni- 
mander-in-Chief of the British forces in 
South Africa in 18S1. Still later lie saw 
much soldiering in Egypt. Sir Evelyn has 
been well described as a “ tremendous 
cavalry soldier.” He is the author of two 
books on this arm of the service—“ Cavalry 
at Waterloo,” and “ Achievements of 
Cavalry.” 

Sir Richard Harrison, K.C.B., the In¬ 
spector-General of Fortifications, the general 
next in seniority to Sir Evelyn, is, as one 
would expect from his position, a “ sapper.” 
His record begins with the Indian Mutiny, 
and as a young Engineer he was present at 
the siege and capture of Lucknow ; he has 
taken part in four or five other campaigns, 
including the Zulu war and the Egyptian war 
of 1882. He carries his sixty-three years very 
well, is a keen soldier, and extremely “ fit.” 
Immediately after him on the roll come 
General Chapman, commanding in Scotland, 
Sir Arthur Lyon-Fremantle, and General 
Montgomery-Moore, Colonel of the 18th 
Hussars. 

Among the other generals of full rank 
several are connected with the ikrniy in 
India—Horace Anderson, I.S.C., Clianner, 
y.C., I.S.C., and Sir Arthur Palmer, I.S.C., 
in command of the Punjab. 

The last two names on the list of generals 
are both those of men of great distinction 
—Sir Henry Bracken bury, the Director- 
General of Ordnance, and Sir Francis Gren¬ 
fell, the Governor of Malta. The former, a 
Staff College man, is a student and a diplo¬ 


matist as well as a soldier. He lias been in 
four or five campaigns, beginning with the 
Mutiny. As an author, his princi])al work is 
a “ Narrative of the Asliantee AVar.” Sir 
Francis Grenfell is a splendid all-round man 
of conspicuous ability, and the excellent 
work he did in Egypt, when he was Sirdar, 
will not soon be forgotten. A strategist and 
a. tactician, he is as fine a soldier as is to be 
found in the Ai'iny. 

Among the lieutenant-generals not in 
S'lntli Africa at tlie time of writing. Sir 



Photo by] {^Elliott & Frif. 

BRIGADIKIl-GENEliAL SHI P.INDON BEOOI), K.C.B. 
Commanding liundclcund District since 1S95. 


Charles Mansfield Clarke, Sir Cecil East, 
Sir Robert Low, Sir Baker Russell, General 
Geary, Sir G. B. AVolseley, Sir AATlliain 
Butler, and Sir George Imck, are all well 
known men. The first-named is on the 
military administration as Quarter-Master 
General, and he has seen service in India, 
New Zealand, and in Zululand. He is the 
man who completed the subjugation of the 
Zulus. Sir Cecil East is a good student, as 
well as a good soldier. He showed marked 
capacity when he was at the Intelligence 




32 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Department. Sir Eobert Low, who has the 
Bombay command, is a first-class soldier. 
Sir Baker Eussell, of the 13th Hussars, at 
present commanding at Portsmouth, is not 
only a splendid cavalryman, but also a 
capable all-round general; he is a tactician 
and a strategist of eminence. General 
Geary is President of the Ordnance Com¬ 
mittee ; he is a man of keen intellect and an 
extremely hard worker. Sir G. B. AVolseley, 
brother of the Commander-in-Cbief, is in 
command at Madras. Sir AYilliam Butler, 
now at Devonport, is another of our con¬ 
spicuously able men. Sir George Luck, a 
magnificent cavalry soldier, has the Bengal 
command. 

Such are a few of our lieutenant-generals 
—the exigencies of our space preclude 
making the list as full as I should like. And 
the same remark applies to the major- 
generals, of whom there are something like 
eiglity in our reserve of generals. 

Lord Congleton, in command of the 
infantry at Malta, and General Thynne 
(York) are both admirable soldiers. General 
Trotter, who has the London command, is a 
fine officer who does not spare himself. 
General Burnett, now at l\)ona, is the man 
who revolutionised the feeding of the Army. 
General Maurice is our foremost student- 
soldier. As far back as 1872 he won the 
Wellington Prize Essay, and he has made 


several important contributions to the litera¬ 
ture of war. He has the district command 
at Woolwich at present. General Gosset 
(Dublin) is a man of great ability and 
experience. Sir Coleridge Grove, the Mili¬ 
tary Secretary at Headquarters, is giving 
invaluable service where he is—a position 
for which he is singularly well fitted. 
General SteAvart MacGregor, in command of 
the Artilleiy at Portsmouth, is a capital 
“ gunner.” General Leech—witli the excep¬ 
tion of General Sartorius, the only major- 
general with the V.C. in front of liis name— 
is not only a first-class “sapper,” but a 
good all-round man. General Lloyd, who 
is at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, 
is a very strong man. General Borrett, the 
Inspector-General of the Auxiliary Forces, 
fills his post to perfection, but he has small 
chance of Avar service. Sir John Ardagh 
has a very responsible position as Director 
of the Military Intelligence Department. 
General BroAvnloAv is a fearless soldier who 
made a record for himself at Laing’s Nek. 
Sir Bindon Blood, noAV at Meerut, is a 
“sapper,” but he is a good deal more. He 
proved himself to l)e an excellent general in 
the Chitral campaign. John Ramsay Slade 
is the “ gunner ” Avho brought his guns out 
of the battle of Maiwand. General Hallam 
I^irr (Shornclilfe) is an authority on Mounted 
J n fan try. 



Photo hy"] \_ElUott & Fry. 

MAJOR-GENKHAl. SIK GEORGE B. WOLSEEEY, K.C.B, 
Commanding Madras Forces since 1898, 


PRO PATRIA. 


By max PEMBEETON.^ 


Illustrated by A. Forestier. 


AUTHOR’S FOREWORD. 



T A bbazia, iipoii tlie 
shores of the 
Bay of Qiiar- 
iiero, I first 
heard this 
story from 
the lips of the 
m a n w h o 
wrought 
that it 


might be told. As he 


’^Tote it at my solici¬ 
tation, so for the most 
part is it written here. 
Xo longer a whispered 
tale for the chief 
priests of bureaucracy, 
some knowledge of it 
at least has passed 
from the council- 
chamber to the market¬ 
place ; and there are many who ‘‘ would an 
they could,” yet do not for lack of surer 
ground. One man alone is able to speak ; 
and he has spoken in these pages. That the 
whole nature of the momentous events he 
relates will, hereafter, he understood by his 
fellow countrymen, it would be presumption 
to hope. The Englishman is slow to admit 
the graver perils in which circumstances 
might place his country and his home. The 
unchanging ramparts of sea and shore are 
for him a surer fact than all the armies rf 
the nations. From the-cliffs of Dover he 
looks down upon his “ goodly heritage ” ; in 
the shadow of the “ coastwise lights of 
England ” he finds his hope. Should one 
approach him to say, “ The day is at hand 
when these ramparts shall not avail, when 
the lights shall shine no more,” he would 
give no hearing to so bold a preacher. The 
old complacency would remain undisturbed. 


the unshaken belief in the girdle of the 


waters which, for a thousand years, has stood 
sentinel to the homes of England, and will 
so stand until the end. 


* Copyright, 1900, by Max Pemberton, in the United 
States of America. 


“ Three ways I know,” said the great 
Moltke, “ of getting into your country, but 
I have yet to discover a way of getting out.” 

If Alfred Hilliard’s story suggests any 
thought to us, it may well be this—“ Is the 
truth of the national security the same in our 
day as it was when the first of the Germans 
wrote ? Is it the dreamer alone who may 
tell himself that the national creed is built 
upon a false faith, upon false premises and 
tacit ignorance ? Is it the dreamer alone 
vho, in his dreams, may see the sword at 
England’s gate and the enemy in her homes ? ” 
These questions one man’s devotion has 
helped us to ansiver. A simple soldier, stum¬ 
bling blindly upon the heart of the nation’s 
peril, of such I write. The work which he 
was called upon to do, a thousand hands 
would do again if England’s need should 
seek them ; yet not more courageously could 
it be done, nor Avith greater love for father- 
land, all sufficient and all sacrificing. He 
wrought for his country’s sake, and of him 
liis friends may say, as the greatest of the 
Englishmen said for Gominius— 

“ T do love 

My country’s good with a respect more tender, 
More hoh’’, and profound, than mine own life, 

My dear wife’s estimate.” 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BECxINHUSTG OF ALFRED HILLIARD’S 
STORY, AND INCIDENTALLY OF TWO MEN 
UPON THE ROAD TO CALAIS. 

My story, I am to tell it, you say ? The 
hand is the hand of Damon ; but whence 
comes the counsel ? Others, and they are 
many, have been before me wherever the 
tongue of the gossiper is heard. The 
momentous events of these later months— 
events which yet can put a hush upon my 
Iffe—have been tlie theme of every tattler to 
tickle the ears of the credulous and to make 
strong the boaster. For the pleasure of 
undoing such as these, I must speak, men 
tell me. No longer do my superiors forbid; 
no longer am I, as a soldier, compelled to 
silence. The reasons are good, but I stand 
to a better. If I speak it shall be as an 














34 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Englishman, even the least of my country’s 
servants. That which I did, ten thousand 
would do to-morrow if the call were theirs. 
But mine was the lot; and as it befell so 
let the record go. 

I am to tell my story, but it is to be built 
upon no ancient models. There is to be no 
“dear reader” in it, nor any horsemen 
coming down a hill. Let my friends forgive 
me, if I break faith with them, here at the 
outset; for who should come galloping to¬ 
wards Saint Pierre as I write these very lines 
but Harry Fordham, the parson of Cottes- 
brook, in good Northamptonshire, and how 
should he gallop if not upon a horse ? In 
imagination I see him, it is true, for a 
thousand miles, or more if you wish it, lie 
between this sunny bay of Abbazia and the 
old town of Calais, whereto he rode ^ upon 
that good day of June, which remains in my 
memory as any landmark of my childhood, 
or greater day which men may not forget. 
And of Harry shall my lirst word be, though 
all the canons of the arts are thereby broken, 
and every reader that would follow me quits 
the loitering caravan upon the threshold of 
the pilgrimage. 

“Plalloa, Sir Knight! halloa, halloa ! And 
where, in Heaven’s name, did you get that 
stink-pot from ? ” 

There are some men from whom you take 
insult meekly. Harry Fordham is one of 
them. Let him cast ashes upon your an¬ 
cestors, and your own handkerchief dusts 
the pictures. God never intended him to be 
a parson, he ^ays. I would write it down 
that no truer servant of religion ever wore 
white choker (though, to be sure, he is given 
to stocks when he hunts in winter). 

“ ‘ Stink-pot,’ my dear Harry, is a vulgar 
term. Behold a brand new Panhard, de¬ 
livered an hour ago from the city of Paris. 
It cost a thousand, please to remember. 
Respect her Majesty’s coinage, if you have 
none for me.” 

He reined in an impatient horse and 
looked my new automobile up and down 
contemptuously. 

“ The Lord be good to you for coming to 
a thing like that—you that have ridden 
horses. Why, they must smell it in Calais, 
and that’s a mile away. Captain Alfred 
Hilliard, you are on the broad and easy 
road. Thank your stars for it.” 

I told him to have done with it and not 
to display his ignorance. 

“ Come, now, you were never on a motor 
in your life ? ” 

“ I have too much respect for the Cloth.” 


“Which, in your case, is a check suit they 
can see at Dover.” 

He looked down at his amazing coat, and 
the twinkle of his keen eyes was a thing to see. 

“ The Church must set an example. 
Besides, where shall the loud lyre be heard 
if not in France. I want to know about 
the car.” 

“ Come aboard and I will haste thy 
manual to be. Seriously, it’s a pretty car ? ” 

“The proud kettle rejoicing in Day and 
Martin. I admit that it has points above 
other kettles. Be kind to my widow and 
children and I will listen to you. Is the 
horse to come, too ? ” 

“ Summon that aged impostor at the 
inn-door yonder, and let him hear some 
Winchester French. He seems to want a 
tonic.” 

He hailed the fellow with a voice that 
would have moved a Margate hoy, and 
having wasted a good deal of breath in such 
plain injunctions as Meiiez le clieval a 
Vkiirie,'^' te donnerai un 

franc y"' he crossed the road and seated him¬ 
self at my side. 

“To the bureau of the nearest asylum, 
allons done, cher Alfred. I am all for a 
speedy death, ‘ something lingering, with 
boiling oil in it.’ Cover me up and let her 
rip, as Homer says.” 

“ I will run you into Boulogne under the 
hour, and bring you back with a new faith. 
People Avho abuse motors belong to a past 
generation—a race that tabooed the steam- 
engine for the sake of the horse-breeder. 
Ten years hence they will be in sackcloth, 
which is not so becoming as an Irish home- 
spun, let me tell you. Admit that the 
sensation is a new thing in your life.” _ 

“ I admit everything to the man with the 
club. The thing certainly seems respectable. 
I apologise to its odorous qualities. Omnes 
sihi malle melius esse quam alterL The 
stink is left upon the road behind us, for 
the benefit of posterity, as it were.” 

“ There is little or none when we are 
moving, no vibration, no jar, you see. A 
good car always reminds me of a gondola. 
You go and don’t know why you go.” 

“ Until you run into a handy ditch and 
are better informed. Instruct my ignorance, 
what speed are we travelling now ? ” ^ 

“ Twenty-one and an eighth miles an 
hour. Down the hill yonder I will promise 
you thirty-five miles an hour.” 

“ And I am an orphan. Nidkis est locus 
domesUca seda jucundior. Cicero anticipated 
tins, my Alfred. Be a little merciful.” 


PRO PATRIA. 


35 


“Do you remember the archdeacon who 
was asked to say prayers because the ship 
was sinking, and who cried, ‘ Great Heaven ! 
has it come to that ? ’ You remind me of 
him. But I am going to slacken speed, 
Harry. AYe are now running nine miles an 
hour. Take courage and regard the prospect.” 

It is cruelty to animals to drive an auto¬ 
mobile at her best when you have one in 
statu pqnllari aboard. While I knew Harry 
Fordham would have cried “ Bravo ! ” even 
had we gone at a hundred miles an hour, I 


and vi\'ifying. The blue waters were spread 
out as though at our very feet. A fisher¬ 
man’s cottage upon the cliff had the aspect 
of a doll’s house built into some picture which 
a great theatre disclosed. A man lived on 
such a day. Nevertheless, for my part, I 
can never look to the white cliffs of Kent 
without a sickness for my home ; and so it 
was upon that morning, when, as a so-called 
invalid and certainly an idler, I turned my 
eyes to Dover town and tlie green heights of 
England beyond. 



“ Tie looked iiiy new automobile up and down contemptuously.” 


slackened speed through the village of La 
Chaussee, and permitted him, as we mounted 
the hill l)eyond, to enjoy the super!) prospect 
of the downs and the odd little town of 
Calais behind us, and even the wliite cliffs 
of our own country across the laughing sea. 
One of the packet-l)oats was making Calais 
Harbour then; a fleet of smacks, their brown 
sails close hauled, drifted rather than sailed 
upon that sparkling field of blue. Out in 
mid-channel a great liner steamed for Thames 
and home in an atmosphere gloriously clear 


“ Wliy are we in Calais, Harry, when we 
might be in London?” 1 asked him, for 
the scene had stilled liis tongue, too. “ Do 
you know that the liOiulon season is now in 
full swing —vide the society papers ? Think 
of all the pretty women in Hyde Park this 
very day—Eanelagh, Prince’s, suppers at the 
Carlton, the clack of tongues, and ‘ Music, 
with her voluptuous swell.’ Are yon un¬ 
moved ? ” 

• “ As a rock. I would not cliange a boat 
of ail that fishing-fleet for the house with 




86 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


the statues on it in Park Lane. Consider 
me an enigma—and tell me where we 
lunch.” 

“ At the first decent hotel in Boulogne. 
That windmill over there marks the village 
of Marquise. It is seven miles from there 
to the town, and you shall do it in half an 
hour.” 

‘‘ For these and all mercies- By the 

way, do you dine with Lepeletier to-night ? 
But of course you do ; where else should 
you dine ? ” 

I suppose that my face betrayed me ; for 
presently he laughed and slapped me on the 
shoulder. 

We blush: all is safe !” he cried merrily. 
“ Why are we in Calais, old Alfred ? Why, 
to dine with Lepeletier and his daughter.” 

I turned it with a question. 

“ Are you dining there ? ” 

“ Be calm. I am, sir. I shall even pre¬ 
sume to take the exquisite Agnes into dinner. 
Ha, ha ! all is discovered, my Alfred. Fly 
at once.” 

I said nothing, for what can a man say at 
such times ? After all, the story must come 
out some time, and why not then ? Surely 
I knew no one to whom I would tell it so 
freely as to Harry Fordham, the largest- 
hearted man that ever preached the gospel 
of humanity. He, meanwhile, flew off at a 
tangent. 

‘‘ I like Lepeletier—a French gentleman, 
a rara avis nowadays. It seems odd that 
such a man should be sent to Calais, of all 
places, because the Government has taken it 
into its head to dig a coal-pit, or something. 
But it must be more than that, for when I 
rode over to the Avorks the other day, a 
sentry came out of a box and struck an atti¬ 
tude Avhich would have done credit to Ajax 
and the lightning. I explained that I agreed 
Avith him entirely and turned my horse. 
I am sorry to have missed the pith of an 
excellent oration. Pie really was very angry 
for such a small man.” 

“ You mean the sea-Avorks over yonder at 
Escalles ? I’ve often thought of it. The 
official story is a Government surA^ey for neAv 
protective harbour Avorks and coal borings. 
Why should they be so secret about it ? But 
it’s alAA^ays the case in France. They show 
the foreigner the sentry’s bayonet. We 
shoAV him everything and give him a glass 
of sherry afterwards. It’s the English con¬ 
fidence, I suppose.” 

“ And a good, old-fashioned confidence, 
too. I like the open door. If you are going 
to knock a man doAvn for his sins, always do 


it in a gentlemanly Avay. The skeleton in 
the cupboard is but a collection of bones 
AA’hen you dump him doAvii outside. I preach 
that from the pulpit—light and not darkness. 
You cannot tell an honest man from a rogue 
until the lamp is turned up. Get them out 
into the daylight, and you teach them to 
see.” 

‘‘ Fine maxims —I can take more of them 
AA^hen that felloAV over there has done AAuth 
his horse. Why does he perform circus 
tricks on the Eepublic’s higliAA^ay ? ” 

‘‘ Ask his horse, man, ask his horse. 
Don’t you see he’s boAving to us ? By Jove ! 
that’s ugly.” 

We Avere in the village of Wimille at the 
moment, and had met a Frenchman upon a 
little chestnut cob, AAdiich, Avhatever Avere his 
other qualities, entertained no good opinion 
of motor cars, I could see. Noav rearing 
straight on end, noAV lashing out, noAV Avhip- 
ping round, iioav bucking from sheer light¬ 
ness of heart, the cob had throAvn his 
awlvAA-ard rider heavily to the ground almost 
before I could brake the car and bring her 
to a standstill. For a moment I thought 
the felloAv was surely killed ; but he Avas upon 
his feet again Avhile Harry ran to him, and 
his avalanche of Avords gave comforting 
eAudence that no great injury AA^as done. 
When he had recovered his breath, and a 
villager had caught the light-hearted cob, he 
began to listen to our apologies. Let me say 
a Avord about him, as he stands there, for Ave 
shall meet him again upon the road to 
Calais. 

A man of the middle height, Avith a 
sinuous, Aviry figm’e, a face bronzed by the 
sun, and blackened by the Avork he did at the 
foreshore soundings—for I bad no doubt 
from the first that he came from Escalles 
and the Government’s business there ; very 
deep-set, clever eyes beneath a forehead 
round and shallow and by no means clever. 
In type a creole, aaEosc “ colour ” you might 
detect in the thick lips and the angular nails 
of well-shaped hands. Hair matted and 
curly ; great breadth of shoulders coupled to 
a long, thin neck Avhich seemed to detach 
his head from his body and to permit it to 
strike all sorts of odd attitudes. In short, a 
man of taciturn aspect whom you would have 
passed a hundred times Avithout notice in 
any croAvd—yet one, and this AA’as the 
surprise of it, Avhose face Avas knoAvn to me 
as the face of someone Avho had played a 
part in my life, but whose very name I had 
forgotten. Behold me staring at him in 
mute amazement while Harry racked his very 



PRO FATRIA. 


37 


soul for new and ungrammatical apologies, 
and I had not a word to add to them. 

The Frenchman heard us to the end 
sullenly, brushed tlie dust from his coat, 
sprang upon his cob, struck the beast 
savagely with a steel rod he carried in his 
hand, and without a single word went can¬ 
tering away towards Calais just as Harry 
wound up with an expression of sorrow 
which would have brought the Academy of 
France to a premature grave. Here we were 
left, we two, staring foolishly at each other 
and at the peasant who had caught the horse. 
A more ridiculous situation is not to be con¬ 
ceived. Harry saluted it with a roar of 
laughter which might have been heard at 
Cape Gris-Nez. 

“My French, my French—^oh, blessed 
tongue ! Has lie gone to fetch the gendarmes, 
do you think ? ” 

I scarcely answered him. The car was 
away again in a cloud of dust before I spoke. 

“ Who could the fellow have been ? Don’t 
laugh at me—I have seen him somewhere. I 
could not tell you where if my life depended 
upon it.” 

“ But it doesn’t depend upon it. Do not 
court reminiscences, my Alfred, on such a 
day. We have done all that civility reipiired, 
and more. Heard civility ever such a 
splendid use of the imperfect subjunctive ? ” 

“ Imperfect, no doul)t. Hence the gallop. 
He is riding away to Escalles to say that a 
ferocious Englishman is killing his mother 
tongue in the village of Wimille. Your 
speech will amuse a town to-night. You 
serve humanity, gratis.” 

Harry took a cigarette from his case, and 
realising the impossibility of obtaining a 
light in a car travelling twenty miles an 
hour, he chewed it philosophically and 
turned the banter with a new story. 

“ Do you know,” he said, “ that fellow 
spoke English when he was on the ground.” 

“ English ? ” 

“ I will—well, affirm it. He said a word 
common to some emergencies of life— 
amongst laymen.” 

“ Anything else ? ” 

“Oh, yes, a good deal more. Don’t ask 
me to repeat it.” 

“ Stand excused. I knew that I had seen 
him somewhere. The face is as familiar as 
it can be.” 

“ A good many faces are. I have known 
men that said the same of every pretty girl 
they met. Such a habit leads to unpleasant¬ 
ness.” 

“It will not do so in this case, foi* I 


remember my man. He is Robert Jeffery, 
who crammed with me at Webb’s.” 

“ Call him Robinson Crusoe, and I will be 
his man Friday. What put that tale into 
your head ? ” 

“The man’s face. I could have picked 
him out of a hundred. He went up for 
Woolwich and was ploughed. A clever man, 
as a mathematician aj)Ove the average, but 
his taste in claret was too good-” 

Harry sympathised always when you told 
him of distress. 

“ Poor chap ! ” he said quickly ; “ it is the 
end of the story which I generally hear in 
those cases.” 

“ Y'es, but not in this one. What is the 
man doing at Calais, at the Admiralty works, 
too ? ” 

“ Carrying a steel rod, apparently. Also 
riding a horse. My dear fellow, Avhy speculate ? 
There is the sea, and beyond it the odorous 
town of Boulogne! Let us lunch, and 
speculate afterwards.” 

1 did not answer him. It seemed to me 
that the face of Robert Jeffery followed me 
to the town, and that the man sat at my side 
even while I ate. Noi’, to this hour, can I 
account for a premonition so remarkable. 


CHAPTER II. 

OF MYSELF AND ANOTHER. 

1 HAD been in Calais exactly three weeks 
when Parson Harry Fordham fell foul of my 
motor-car ; and, as far as I could see, the 
distant winter might find me still in that 
exceedingly uninteresting memorial to Queen 
Mary’s prophecy. An ugly fall with the 
Fitzwilliam hounds, an ever-aiixious mother, 
the impossibility of serving my regiment 
with a deficiency of ribs and a, collar-bone 
which the faculty obstinately described as 
“ broken,” had sent me from England in the 
February of the year to join the sun-seekers 
at Nice, and aftei'wards to imagine myself 
an invalid at Pan. Upon the links at the 
latter town I first met Colonel Lepeletier 
and his daughter. She biught him the 
English golf, she said ; and her dear father 
was so rapidly improved that a week found 
him in all the bunkers, and in a fortnight he 
had broken his clubs. I complimented the 
fine old fellow upon this excellent achieve¬ 
ment and his admirable control of temper, 
and was not surprised that the audacity 
amused him. “A game for children,” he 
said apologetically, “and yet one which 
makes little things seem great to us. I am 




THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


:-^8 

ashamed of myself, but to-morrow I shall 
play again.’* 

It was good to hear him ; for I agreed with 
Harry Ford ham that Colonel Lepeletier was 
one of God’s best works, an honest gentleman. 
A ‘‘ hall-mark ” man, the parson called him ; 
and I would dnl) them both as he dubbed one. 
In all my life I thought that I had never 
seen a prettier tiling than this spectacle of 
a little Frencli girl teaching her less agile 
father the mysteries of golf. There is, I 
suppose, one liour in every man’s life when 
he finds such a picture and such a thought 
as I found upon the links at Pan. The 
more sacred impulses are least to be written 
about ; I hesitate to speak of mine when 
they do not concern this story. But let it 
be recorded that 1 lingered a month in Pan, 
and that Avdiere Agnes Lepeletier walked, 
there.went my ivorld. Silently, surely, un- 
knoAvingly, perliaps, tliat understanding, so 
subtile, so intimate, so true, began to mould 
our Avills. The day Aidien impatience to see 
my brother-officers and my regiment chafed 
and galled Avas forgotten and unmourned. 
A rich man (for tliat crime tlie Avorld has 
laid at my door), I was my own master—to 
serve or not to serve as the impulse dictated ; 
to forget my home in England if I had tlie 
mind to ; to niarry or give in marriage as 
the AAdiim should take me. Bub the time for 
serious things Avas not yet. I Avas at Pan, 
and Agnes Lepeletier had become my com¬ 
panion. I asked nothing more of Nature or 
of man. 

The Aveeks passed quickly, all too quickly, 
Ave said, when Oscar Lepeletier told us at 
dinner, one night in the first Aveek of May, 
that his Avork called liiin back to Paris, and 
from Paris might send him to the exaspera- 
tingly unromantic toAvn of Calais. I knew 
nothing of his reasons, nor did he seek my 
confidence. But to Agnes I said, ‘‘ I Aviil 
come to Calais ” ; and there aA'US that upon 
lier face which could make my pulse beat the 
faster and send me to the booking-office as 
men rarely go. So behold the new scene. 
The Colonel at his official house which over¬ 
looks the Jardin Bichelieu, the English 
“ Sir Capitain ” at the Hotel Meurice, AAdiich, 
should you stop in Calais (and may the gods 
forbid ! ) you Avill find in the Bue de Guise. 
Had it been the Black Country, to me it had 
been an Eden ; for Agnes Avas tliere, and 
Avhen a Aveek had passed, Harry Fordham, 
the king of parsons, AA^as my fellow adA^'en- 
turer for every enterprise. 

He had left Cottesbrook, in Northamp¬ 
tonshire (for he holds our family living 


there) to visit an unknoAvn destination in 
SAvitzerland ; but being exceedingly ill upon 
the steamer, the impulse took him to 
come and see me in Calais. A decent 
horse, to AABich the Colonel introduced him ; 
some pleasant tennis parties contrived by 
Mademoiselle Agnes ; an heroic attempt to 
build a golf links on the sandy dunes to 
the Avest of Calais ; perchance pure pity for 
my solitary condition, kept him in the name 
of charity at the Hotel Meurice, AAdiere I 
had bivouacked. One excuse and the other 
delayed his return to England ; and Avhen 
June came Ave had formed a habit of the 
toAvn, and no longer detected its deficiencies. 
For that matter, Harry AA^as no less frequent 
a visitor to Colonel Lepeletier’s house 
than I had become. We dined there twice 
a Aveek, breakfasted in the shade of the 
garden as often, Avere unceasing in our quest 
of unfamiliar pilgrimage and lazy picnic. But 
Harry Avas the more Avclcome guest at the 
house, as I kncAV from tlie beginning of it ; 
and if the kindlier greeting he received 
AA’^as spoken by Colonel Lepeletier’s lips, 
none the less it threatened to be the dis¬ 
turbing element, not only of my holiday, 
but of my life. 

That Lepeletier’s attitude baffled me, I 
confess unhesitatingly. My position, at least, 
I argued, might have Avon upon his consider¬ 
ation ; for feAV that came to his house enjoyed 
such adA^antages of fortune as my birthright 
had thrust upon me. NeA^ertheless, this fine 
old felloAV, Avho had loved to play the father’s 
part to me at Pan, Avas here so changed in 
Calais that I began to doubt my very senses 
and the estimate of him they had formed for 
me. Frigidly polite, ahvays ready with his 
hospitalities, sometimes melting to his old 
geniality and confidence, there remained in 
my mind the conviction that I Avas not a 
Avelcome guest at his house, and that my 
departure from Calais AAmuld be pleasing to 
him. If I delayed to perceive this, or to be 
aAvare of the true state of the case, until the 
situation threatened to become intolerable, 
remember the old fable that Love is blind— 
upon which I put the sure fact that my 
interest in Agnes Lepeletier had now passed 
the bounds of mere friendship and entered 
into that intimate dominion of a woman’s 
heart which one in all the Avorld may share 
with her. I was blind, because my eyes had 
other things to see. To aAA^ake was to come 
doAvn from the gardens of my dreams to the 
sandy toAvn of Calais and its hotel. I 
determined that very day to speak to 
Lepeletier and to make an end of it. The 



“‘A ^aiiu* lor cliildnMi,’ lie said apologetically.” 










40 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


occasion was the dinner at his house. The 
opportunity should be found for me by 
Harry Fordham. 

The Colonel dined at seven o’clock, and it 
was at half-past six when Harry, black now in 
the prim clothes of orthodoxy, came to my 
room to “ call beginners,” as he put it in 
the jargon which amateur theatricals had 
taught him. I had just finished dressing, 
and, seeing that it was but five minutes from 
the Hotel Meurice to the house by the 
Jardin Richelieu, I suggested that we should 
take a turn down the Place d’Armes and 
chat as we went. “ For, Harry,” said I, 
“ you must be serious to-night, more serious 
than ever you were in all your life.” 

He laughed and linked his arm in mine. 
“The gods shall weep for my melancholy,” 
he said. “ Behold these tears upon a virgin 
cheek ! ” 

I told him to have done with his nonsense 
and to listen to me. It was a simple story. 
He had observed Lepeletier’s manner toAvards 
me ; he must guess the reason. He knew 
why I Avas in Calais. If anything lay 
behind the Colonel’s manner but the plain 
intimation that I Avas not the husband he 
Avould choose for his daughter, I should be 
glad to know of it. Could Harry suggest 
anything ? In short, could he help me ? 
To all of Avhich he listened Avith that 
unabashed merriment Avhich nothing could 
moderate or control. He aa^ouM not be 
serious. 

“ Oh, man ! ” he exclaimed, Avhen my 
patience was nigli exhausted, “man that 
is born of AA’oman, art not blind as any camel 
Avith one eye? Attend noAv to my argument. 
What l)efalls him Avho takes a cleek AA’hen he 
should use a brassey ? Assuredly he is 
bunkered, even as thou art, my Damon. 
But let him take the proper club, and lo ! 
there is papa, and papa’s darling, and tlie 
darling of papa’s darling in a threesome of 
their heart’s choice. Play the game, Captain 
Alfred, play the game-” 

“ If you Avere not my friend, Harry, I 
AA'ould not go anotlier step Avith you.” 

He affected great sorroAv, but so drolly 
that I could not but laugh Avith liim. 

“ Mea cvlpa, mea maxima culpa. I Avill 
be A^ery solemn, brother. Let me tell you of 
a man in love Avho is afraid to ask papa, 
and AAdio, thereby, provoketh papa to im¬ 
patience. Ye goats and sheep ! don’t you 
see, my Allred, tliat the old gentleman is 
dying for the Avord, tlie blessed Avord ? 
You arc tlie laggard. Ponder upon the 
cutlets you have eaten in that same house. 


the excellent Burgundy you have drunk. 
Is mon p)ere to sit for ever, the spectator 
of your billing and cooing ? Not so, by 
my halibut! ” 

A great light came to me CA^en of his 
nonsense. 

“Upon my honour, I ncA^er thought of 
that. Do you really think it’s true, Harry ? ” 

“ If I Avere a layman I Avould go nap upon 
it. And why not ? Here is the prettiest 
little girl in all France—I say so ; do not 
contradict me—the prettiest little girl in 
all France, cooling her heels—oh, phrase 
most elegant!—on the doorstep of the beast’s 
house, Avhile the beast plays tennis, SAvims, 
roAvs, driA^es a stink-pot, and does anything 
but go to her papa to say, ‘ Honourable sir, 
give me your daughter to Avife, for I have no 
Avild oats in my garner, and I am of discreet 
age, or should be, and there is gold in my 
cellars (if I choose to keep it there).’ Man, 
you’re a catch, and you don’t know it. To 
Lepeletier, a milord Avhose money-bags jingle ; 
to little Agnes, the fairy prince Avhose ribs 
Avere hurt as lie fell out of heaven. Can’t 
you see it ? Are you blind ? Must I do the 
"business for you ? Why, the old felloAv’s 
dying, going into rapid consumption, because 
you forbid him to say, ‘ Bless you, my 
children ! ”’ 

He stopped, for very Avant of breath, 
I believe, and seeing that I had notliing to 
say—for I AA^as beAAuldered Avith the novelty 
of it, bcAvildered beyond understanding or 
clear thought—he put his hand upon my 
shoulder and compelled me to look him in 
the face. Eyes more honest I have never 
seen. 

“ Do you AA^ant the girl ? do you mean to 
marry her ? ” he asked despotically. 

“ Don’t be a fool, Harry—at least admit 
my honour.” 

“Admitted—and underlined. This very 
night thy latch-key shall be required of 
thee. Come on. Sir Romeo, I aauII eA’cn 
punish the Bordeaux Avhilc you throAv the 
glove to papa. It is a clean glove, at any 
rate.” 

My head Avas too full of the surprise of it 
to ansAAW him, and once more he linked his 
arm in mine and set out for the Jardin 
Richelieu. His talk Avas all of x4gnes noAv, 
of her, and that Avhich he Avas pleased to call 
the right ascension of the planet Yenus. 
Nevertheless, a note of iieAv gravity rang 
presently in liarmony Avith his badinage, and 
tlie jester’s cloak fell to reveal the counsellor. 

“ A man of thirty-one can do many things 
Avell, especially if he has the money. Mar- 



PRO PATRIA. 


41 


riage is one of them. Wild oats, kept until 
they become riches, feed the honour of home 
and fatherhood. You are growing blase, 
my Alfred. Life is ennui. You are like 
the millionaire’s child who cried because it 
wanted to want something. Twenty thou¬ 
sand a year, the best place in Northampton¬ 
shire, a doting mother, are knocking the 
iron out of your will. I find you moody 
and contemplative—symptoms of repletion. 
As you are, you will never do anything in 
life. If they give you a brass plate or— 
horrilnle dictu! —a couple of plaster angels 
ill Cottesbrook Church, it will be more than 
you deserve. A wife would change all this. 
It is even possible that she would make you 
do something to astonish me. I have 
thought of it often, but no man has a right 
to speak such thoughts. Judge of my joy, 
as they say in the fairy books, when I came 
to Calais and found you with one hand 
already in the matrimonial lucky bag.” 

‘‘ Unlucky bag, sometimes, Harry.” 

Tais-toi. Here is our exception. Du 
you not understand that you are winning 
tlie SAveetest little woman in all France ? ” 

‘‘ I haA^e a shreAvd suspicion of it.” 

“ One Avho Avill say, ‘ Life is not in tlie 
newspaper or the clubs, but here in a good 
AA^oman’s heart.’ ” 

“An excellent sentiment.” 

“ One Avho Avill tell you that you, Alfred 
Hilliard, of the Eighteenth Hussars, captain, 
must do something for the island they call 
England, and something for the sake of the 
name you bear.” 

“ I cannot expect hei’ to be OA^er-anxious 
about our side of the Cliannel. She is born 
of France, at least.” 

“ Rubbish, my son ! A Avoman is of lier 
husband’s nation. It says little for the 
husband if she be not. At Cottesbrook she 
Avill bakble patriotism in the prettiest broken 
English possible. Do not contradict me. 
A parson Avho baptises and buries them sees 
both ends of the stick, as it Avere. You are 
marrying a good girl—tell yourself that 
AAfiien papa asks about yonr expectations 
to-night. The old fellow Avould groAV an 
inch if he could see vour liankiug account, 
Cher Alfred.” 

I resented the suggestion—AA^ould have 
resented it hotly but for the fact that Ave 
stood now upon the threshold of the house, 
and could see the candles upon the dinner- 
table Avhereat we Avere about to sit. The 
nadir of infamy surely is touched in that 
plea, “ I am a rich man ; give me yonr 
daughter to wife.” 


Harry implied no such vulgarity Avhen he 
fell to his bantering humour, as I Avould 
have admitted in a cooler moment ; and 
noAv, silencing me Avith a gesture, he opened 
the gate of Lepeletier’s garden. 

“ Hush ! AA’e are obsei'A^ed,” he said, with 
finger upraised mockingly. “ The band does 
not play but the curtain rises. I Avish you 
luck, old felloAv, luck from the very bottom 
of my heart.” 

I kneAv that he did ; knew tliat there AA^as 
no truer friend of mine in all Europe than 
Plarry Fordliam, the parson of Cottesbrook. 
Nevertheless, I AA'ent into the old barrack¬ 
like house with lieaA^ steps and a foreboding 
r could but ill define. 

All Harry’s philosophy was true, every 
Avord of it. I kneAv that the one AAnman in 
all the world for me was the one I Avas about 
to meet in the little draAving-room beyond 
the hall : I kncAV tliat I could speak to her 
lather Avith an authority of my position 
AAdiich few might hope for ; and yet my 
expectation stumbled, halted, AAnnt laggingly 
and obstinate to the salon. Perchance the 
house itself helped my mood. There is no 
more gloomy house in all the cities. From 
every square and hideous windoAV you look 
upon the docks and scjualid basins of Calais 
Harbour. The great buttresses of the grey 
citadel are its neiglibours for the left hand*; 
the arid Jardin Richelieu mocks its pastoral 
pretensions upon the right. I never entered 
it yet but it seemed to carry me to some 
prison-house, some silent gate, beyond its 
portals. And I am glad because I shall 
neA^er pass its door again to my life’s end. 

Agnes AA’as at the piano as Ave entered ; a 
little, Avinsome figure in a gown of muslin 
AA’orn as only a FrencliAVoman knoAA’s how to 
AA’ear the poorer stuffs and make them rich. 
A simple circlet of pearls about her throat 
Avas her only ornament of jewels ; but she 
AAmre one Avhite rose in her pretty broAvn hair, 
and that Avhich her face lacked of coloui* (for 
it was always a pale face, I thought) she made 
good in expressive eyes and the little affec¬ 
tionate mannerisms Avhich are a Avoman’s 
poAver. She had a habit, I remember, of 
laying her hand u])on my arm AA'hen she 
spoke to me, and excitement could empha¬ 
sise the touch until it became almost a grip 
AAdiich seemed to act upon every nerve in my 
body. Quick in all lier actions, ahvays at 
the high place of her spirits, capable of deep 
feeling, nevertheless her quick, Avomanly 
sympathy, developed to maturity in her girl¬ 
hood, Avas for me her abiding characteristic. 
It Avas no doll’s face that looked up at us as 


42 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


we entered the drawing-room, but a face 
that a man might remember when others 
more beautiful were forgotten. 

“ Why do you always come when I am 
practising, Captain Hilliard ?” she asked, as 
she held out an ungloved hand and with the 
other scattered the music upon the piano. 
“ That is the ‘ March from Tannhaiiser,’ and 
I hate it.” 

‘‘ Then why do you play it. Mademoiselle 
Agnes ? ” 

“ Because it makes a noise, and you cannot 
hear the wrong notes. Wagner wrote it for 
me to drown the bugles in the citadel. Is 
Monsieur Harry musical—oh, but I’m sure 
he’s not.” 

Harry, sitting in a low chair, looked for 
all the world like some great, fair-haired 
schoolboy. 

“Not musical, when I am the father of 
(Iregorians ? ” he cried, in affected indigna¬ 
tion. “ Do you know that I once wrote an 
oratorio, mademoiselle, and that the critics 
pronounced it beneath contempt ? I have 
considered myself musical from that day. 
Horrible term, isn’t it ? Suggests a musical 
box in your chest. You turn the handle 
and the box plays ‘The Carnival of Venice.’ 
There’s an idea for a patent. Musical sweets 
guaranteed to play ‘ We Won’t Go Home 
till Morning,’ wlien you’ve swallowed them.” 

Agnes, who spoke good English, for she 
had been educated in the convent at Isle- 
worth—though one of the old Fi'ench Pro- 
tesbints—was utterly unable to follow blaster 
Harry’s idiom. 

“ I believe that you play beautifully,” she 
said in protest. “You shall try after dinner.” 

“ I will render you the ‘ Lost Cliord ’ Avith 
one finger—the missing notes to be found 
by the imagination. Alfred will supply an 
assorted bass. He is very good on the lower 
‘ G.’ Ask him.” 

She told him that she would insist upon it, 
and had turned round to make me her ally, 
when Colonel Lepeletier entered the room, 
and with him there stood the very man 
whose horse had shied at my automobile in 
the village of Wimille that morning, Eobert 
Jeffery, of Webb’s aforetime, the rejected 
of Woolwich, yet here masking under a 
French name, and presented to me as one of 
France’s most skilful engineers. I stared at 
the Colonel in amazement. Why did he 
introduce his friend to me as a French¬ 
man ? ” 

“Monsieur Sadi Martel—Captain Hilliard. 
How ! you have met before, gentlemen ? ” 

It was upon my tongue to say that we had 


met many times before ; but I controlled 
myself, perhaps as a tribute to my curiosity, 
and in a word related the events of the 
morning. 

“ Monsieur Martel, I fear, must bear me a 
grudge—his horse objects to innovations. 
Colonel. I am glad of this opportunity to 
make my apologies.” 

Jeffery, for so I insisted on calling him, 
nodded his liead in a gesture Avhich was 
meant to be curt, I thought, and spoke to 
the Colonel in rapid French. Then he 
turned to Agnes and left me with her 
father. 

“ A fortunate meeting, but I had no idea 
of it,” said the Colonel, as he led me away 
from them to the window. “My friend is 
one of the engineers at the harbour Avorks. 
You Avill not often meet so clever a man.” 

“ A Frenchman, of course ? ” 

“ On his father’s side. His mother Avas 
an American. You will discoA'Cr that he 
shares tlie vices of some of my countrymen. 
He has yet to understand the merits of 
England ; you must convert him. His 
father Avent to Mexico Avith the unfortunate 
Maximilian, but the son has been many 
years in France and has almost forgotten his 
accent. A most interesting man, Avhose 
name Europe aauII hear one day.” 

I said nothing, Avaiting for him to con¬ 
tinue. But I remembered that it Avas 
sixteen years ago almost to a month since 
Eobert Jeffery had left England, Avithout 
reputation or prospect. The man who stood 
over there talking volubly to Mademoiselle 
Agnes Avas Sadi Martel, and not Eobert 
Jeffery, the Colonel said. Again I Avondered 
at the coincidence, and was wondering still 
Avhen the servant announced dinner. 

ATe Avent to dinner, Agnes, to my satisfac¬ 
tion, upon Harry’s arm ; and being seated, 
I found myself upon the left-hand side of 
the table, and so far remoA'ed from the 
engineer that politeness demanded no effort 
to converse Avith him. Already Ave had 
been given to understand that he spoke 
little English ; and Harry’s frank admission, 
in turn, that he never yet met a French¬ 
man Avho could understand his French, 
broke the ice ; and each held forth in the 
sure and ceitain conviction that his neigh¬ 
bour could not contradict him. Once or 
tAvice in a lull of their talk I found Jeffery’s 
eyes turned curiously upon me; but Avhenever 
our glances met he Avould avoid my question 
in a neAV outburst of declamation and argu¬ 
ment. His Amiability astonished me, for at 
Webb’s AAm had spoken of him as a silent man. 


PRO PATRIA. 


48 



“ She touched niy arm with her liand, iii one of those gestures 1 love.” 


“ I am interested in your engineer,” I said 
to Agnes anon. “ Tell me about him.” 

She touched my arm with her hand, in 
one of those gestures I love, and answered 
me provoki ugly. 

“ If you listen, he will tell you about 
himself.” 

“ Rut I can’t understand a half he says.” 

“ Are you sure that you lose anything ? ” 

“ Your father says that I do. His name 
is to be heard all over Europe.’' 

‘‘Then he must have invented a new 
speaking-trumpet. He is so clever you 
know, down below the ground.” 

“ A good many men are clever there, 
Mademoiselle Agnes. We admit it generously. 
Have you known Monsieur Martel long r ” 

“ Since the works began. He has in¬ 
vented a great machine for digging up the 
coal. Why, are you curious ? You should 
ask him.” 

“ He seems to interest you, at least.” 

“ At least, sir ? Oh, I am least, then-! ” 

“ I mean that you like him.” 

“ Very much ; I like all clever men.” 

“ A Avoman believes every man to be 
clever if he tells her so.” 

“ Does she ? Then why do you not tell 
me that you are clever ? ” 

“ I must have forgotten to mention it. 


I will begin to-morrow. The life and times 
of Alfred Hilliard, soldier.” 

Harry, overhearing us, put in his word. 

“ The life and high old times,” he corrected. 
“ I have often thought of that for a title 
when a bishop is to be written up.” 

“ You are flippant, Harry. Does Monsieur 
Martel forgive your apologies ? ” 

‘‘ He does not forgive your car ! ” 

“Ask him to be introduced to it to¬ 
morrow.” 

“ Tell me the French for that. Mademois¬ 
elle x4gnes.” 

“You would never remember it.” 

“No, but you say it so charmingly.” 

“ Harry, Harry—I listen-” 

“ A pernicious habit ! Do I intrude ? I 
will even make my neighbour miserable.” 

He turned to Martel, and I to Agnes. If 
there be anything more exasperating under 
God’s lieaven than a dinner-table flirtation, 
I would gladly know of it. You break a 
petal of romance — the butler cries, “ Thick or 
clear ? ” You touch a vein of sentiment—a 
brute says, “ 'Ock or sherry ? ” You rise to 
heights of understanding—the flunkey brings 
you to ground again with “ Saddle of mutton, 
sir ? ” Or all is going swimmingly Avhen your 
host’s voice is i-aised to pronounce a verdict, 
and you, all confusion in discovery, must 











u 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE 


cry “Aye,” or “Nay,” as the case may be. 
Happily, I sought no dinner-table flirtation 
with Agnes. There was a deeper, truer voice 
of delight in that unspoken intimacy, in the 
thought that she, a little, unknown French 
girl to me three months ago, but now the one 
flgure of my content—she, who first had 
tauglit me to say, “For this a woman was 
born into the world”—sat there at my side, 
and tliat I might prison in memory every 
note of her laughter, and make my own 
every vision of her changing beauty. We 
would not tell our story, for it were better 
untold. The book wherein we wrote should 
be the book of our lives. I think, even 
then, that her content was linked to mine— 
for good or ill, in an abiding purpose. 

It was a habit in the Coloners house that 
we lingered at the dinner-table but a moment 
wlien Agnes had left it; for the old soldier 
did not smoke, and while he tolerated our 
cigarettes, we conceded much to his habit, 
and usually denied ourselves until we were 
upon the road to the Meurice again. It Avas 
good to see Parson Harry, Avho surpa:^sed the 
chimneys, protesting that the last thing in 
all the world he cared about Avas the nar¬ 
cotic they call tobacco. Upon this evening, 
which J have twenty reasons to remember, 
I can recollect that Lepeletier permitted 
Harry and the other to folloAv his daughter 
to the drawing-room ; but this Avas the sur¬ 
prise of it, no sooner amis I al)out to imitate 
them than he touclied me on the shoulder 
and pointed to an empty chair by his own. 

“ Ijct me see you smoke a cigarette. 
Captain—I should like it.” 

I sat doAvn AAithout a Avord and fumbled 
for my cigarette-case. A first drill, the 
initiating hour of riding-school, a delnit as 
a speaker upon a platform, occurred to my 
mind as child’s tasks beside this ordeal. 
Instinctively I kncAV that the Colonel Avas 
to speak to me of Agnes. I can see him to 
this hour, with his trim, pointe I, black beard, 
his salloAv face, his large and kindly eyes, 
his nervous, AAdiite hand tapping the Avhite 
cloth restlessly. A gentleman ? Aye, there 
never Avas a truer. And he invited my 
confidence. I felt that I could speak to 
liim as to my OAvn father—had my father 
been living. 

“Yes,” he said, “ I have never learned to 
smoke—my misfortune. Captain. Tobacco 
is the handmaiden of Keason. A man can 
smoke with his enemy at the gate ! Other¬ 
wise he comes to bloAA's. Let me see you 
content.” 

“ I am never anything else at your house. 


Colonel. AYhen you come to England, to 
Cottesbrook Castle, I despair of my chances 
—after this.” 

He turned aAvay from me to lift the shade 
of one of the candles. I thought that he was 
a little embarrassed, and I AA-as sorry for 
him. My OAvn condition Avas lamentable. I 
Avas hot and cold, excited and depressed, 
hopeful and desponding, Avhile a man could 
haA^'e counted ten. To this does convention¬ 
ality bring us. Why did I not say to him 
there and then, “ I Avant xlgnes, I won’t 
hear ‘ No ’ ; she is mine ” ? HeaA^en knows 
Avhy it remained unsaid. 

“ I should like to see your English home,” 
he continued by and by, speaking in so Ioav 
a voice that I must bend my ear to folloAV 
him. “ A soldier, hoAveA^er, is less his own 
master than any other man. They keep me 
here in Calais and do not ask me if I Avish 
to go away. Next month, next year, I may 
be a free inan. Hoav can I make promises. 
Captain-? ” 

“ Oh, but you are coming to me some day, 
if I has'e to Avrite to the General myself. It’s 
my due. Colonel. You wouldn't disappoint 
me. I think Mademoiselle Agnes Avill have 
a AVord to say on that matter.” 

He raised his hand as though to stop me. 
The unsliaded candle sent a ray of pale light 
upon a face Avhich, I thought, had groAAui 
old suddenly. 

“ I repeat, I must repeat. Captain, that I 
can make no promises. You Avill not ask me 
AAdiy —you Avill knoAv that I am compelled to 
be frank Avith you. I Avish that you could 
understand me. It is not to be, hoAvever. 
When our duty stands betAveen us and our 
Avishes, Ave may complain, but Ave must not 
rebel. I do not forget that Ave are both sol¬ 
diers, and that one of us aauU think it Aviser 
to return to bis OAvn country by and by. 
But I Avould give much to say, ‘Stay here, 
make this your liome.’ Will you believe 
that. Captain Hilliard ? ” 

I do not knoAv hoAV I ansAvered him. If 
he had struck me on the face, the surprise of 
it Avould not have been more amazing. It 
Avas a point-])lank refusal of my unspoken 
recpiest. He had said “ No,” as plainly as 
any man ever said it in this Avorld. The hot 
blood of my race rushed to my face, choking 
tact and reason and argument. I stood up 
and faced him, yet Avas sorry for him in 
spite of myself. 

“ Colonel,” I said, “ do you Avisli me to 
put the only intei’pretation possible upon 
those Avords ? ” 

“ If you pleiise. Captain.” 



PRO PATRIA. 


45 


“ Yon prefer that T sliould leave Calais ? ” 

“ I must prefer it- 

“ Yon have said as much to jonr 
daughter ? ” 

He turned away. 

“ My daughter will understand,” he said, 
but every word cost him an effort. 

“ Then I am not to broach the subject to 
her ? ” 

He started at the (|nestion and looked me 
full in the face. 

‘‘ As a man of liononr, you will say 
nothing to her.” 

‘‘ Leaving that to yon ? ” 

“ I understand my duty, sir.” 

“ Forgive me if my understanding is less 
clear. I shall leave for London in three 
days’ time. It will be possible for you to 
come to another determination before I go — 
in which case you will find me at the 
Meurice.” 

“ Entertain no hopes, I beg of yon. My 
decision is inflexible.” 

“ I shall give yon three days, nevertheless. 
If I do not see Mademoiselle Agnes 
again-” 

But I halted suddenly, and as for the rest 
of it, that remained unspoken. Indeed, I 
remember little more of it save that I shook 
hands with him and went to the door. 

But I saw him for an instant, the figure 
of a weary old man, with the wan light cast 
upward upon a face of marble. And even 
then I knew how much the night had cost 
him. 


CHAPTER HI. 

THE PANTHER. 

I LEFT the house without another word, 
and sending no message even to Harry the 
Parson, I went out into the clear night, and 
struck a road that should bring me down 
toward the Casino and the western beach. 
Never did man so welcome God’s fresh air, 
or the cooling breezes from the sea, as I 
welcomed them in that solitary walk. Not 
so much had the blow struck upon the 
merely selfish matter of my interests ; but 
at my pride, even, it may be, I think now, 
at my self-conceit. Yesterday I had called 
Lepeletier intimate among my friends. To¬ 
night—to-night, I ground my heel into the 
gravel by the seashore and said, as young 
men will, that he should repay to the utmost 
farthing. Never once did I stay to ask 
myself. Why is this thing so ? What fact, 
or lie, or interest has so changed a man in 


twenty-four hours, that he, who yesterday had 
called me son, sliowed me his door to-day— 
civilly, if you will, yet none the less an open 
door ? Anger thrust out the saner figures of 
my thoughts. He had insulted me and I 
would answer him. 

To many a lover, I suppose, has there 
come such an hour as I spent that night 
upon Calais beach—where all sorts of vain 
oaths were sworn vainly, and chivalry could 
colour a fine romance for me, and I called 
the heavens to witness that no man yet 
born should stand ])etween me and her I 
loved. Let the impression of it be effaced 
as tlie folly is forgotten. Rather would I 
remember the north wind as it tumbled the 
breakers upon the harbour piers, or sent a 
rime of spindrift to tauten many a well- 
drawn sail. How the music of the pebbles, 
rolling long-drawn notes of melancholy, 
could touch a plaintive chord, deep and 
human, in my own heart! The lights of 
England shone for me with a new meaning 
as I stood sentinel upon the deserted sands. 
For there was the Foreland, magnificent 
above them all, and the star which marked 
the Goodwins; and other constellations as of 
ships passing eastward, westward, to the 
harbour gates beyond the oceans, to the 
wharves and quays of London town herself. 
Behind me lay Calais, a little group as of 
lanterns hovering above the marshland. A 
band played in the Casino, and its jarring 
gaieties struck a discord upon the sea’s un¬ 
changing voice. But I thought of France no 
longer with affection; and there came to me 
out of the night a consolation of my country, 
of her resources, and of her power—even, it 
may be, some surpassing gratitude to that 
sea whereby I stood, the rampart impassable 
of our kingship, the grave and the glory of 
that multitude of England’s sons who had 
wrought that kingship might be ours. For 
the lights of my country spoke of the green 
lanes, of the homes of England beyond ; and 
my heart went out to them as ever it will go 
homeward in the moments of our grief. 

An hour, at least, I watched the ebbing 
seas, the play of light upon the waters, the 
paths of the great steamers that hurried on 
in mystery as though land and the peoples of 
the land were of no concern to them. And 
when the first impression of it had passed I 
found a cooler head and a clearer wit to 
grapple with that which had befallen me. 
After all, I said, I had acted just as some 
impatient schoolboy, out of temper with bis 
lesson and obstinate beyond knowledge. 
Another man would have had it out with 




4G 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


Lepeletier there and then, would hcixe put 
him to the question and demanded his 
reasons, and sought, it might be, to obtain a 
new argument and a new verdict. But all 
my life had been a sop to the gratification of 
my desires. I had yet to live the day when 
my mother would rebuke the veriest whim 
of mine. My word was law at Cottesbrook, 
and even in my regiment the yoke of 
obedience had ever been made light by a 
tactful and indulgent colonel. Gold is 
but a poor mirror in which to see our¬ 
selves. Until Lepeletier asked me to quit 
his house (for so I put it to myself in my 
account of it) I had been satisfied with the 
picture my mirror gave me ; but now it 
changed upon the instant—to show me that 
of a man unattaining, resourceless, van¬ 
quished at a word, unable to withstand even 
a whisper of dissent. Shame of my weakness 
rather than self -pity prevailed when my 
anger cooled. How Parson Harry would 
laugh at me ! And what would Agnes think 
of her knight, who rode away from the lists 
because a glove was thrown to him ? It 
needed but this to make my humiliation 
complete. 

The harbour clocks, the great bell of the 
Cathedral booming above them, struck the 
hour of ten, when I retraced my steps to the 
Meurice and asked if Mr. Fordham had 
returned. They told me that he had not, 
but that a gentleman, Martel by name, was 
waiting for me in my sitting-room and had 
been there since nine o’clock. To say that 
such a visit astonished me would be to 
express myself but ill. The man was Robert 
Jeffery, after all, then ! He had come to 
beg my secrecy; he could have come for 
nothing else. That much I owed him for 
the sake of auld lang syne. I said that 
his secret should be safe with me, and, 
impatient for the meeting, I went upstairs 
with quick steps. It was Robert Jeffery, 
after all. 

He was in my room, as they said ; and he 
had not forgotten the privileges of a rusted 
acquaintance. I found liim, his black cape 
unbuttoned, one of my cigars between his 
fingers, one of my books in his hands, just 
as I had found him many a day at Webb’s, 
when we promised him a career, and matliema- 
ticians shed their benedictions upon him. 
All the old effrontery, the old reticence were 
there. In five minutes he would know my 
business at Calais—I should not learn his in 
as many years. 

“ Come in, old sport! ” he cried, with all 
the splendour of his impudence, as I entered 


the room and shut the door after me. 
“Come and try one of these weeds and make 
yourself at home. You’re about the last 
man I expected to see in France to-day. A 
lucky meeting, eh ? Well, I’m not so sure 
about it.” 

I threw off my light dust-coat, and, the 
night being very hot and close, I Avent to 
open one of the Avindows AA’hich, evidently, 
he had shut; but he stopped me almost Avith 
an angry gesture. 

“ Not so, my Captain—you are a captain, 
eh, Hilliard ? Well, spare my feelings, then, 
and keep the Avindow shut. I’\'e got a cold 
in my head, and I don’t AA^ant all Calais to 
hear my mother tongue. Good Heavens! I’d 
forgotten I was an Englishman until I saAV 
your mug on the Paris road. Fancy that, 
after sixteen years. Why, man, it makes a 
boy of me again.” 

There was all the old conceit, the offensive 
brutality of manner in the felloAv’s speech, 
AAdiich had contrived to make him one of the 
most unpopular men that ever set foot in 
Webb’s house ; but for the nonce I passed 
by his impertinence, and lighting a cigar I 
wheeled an armchair round and so sat facing 
him. 

“ Well,” I said quietly, “ and why have 
you come here ? ” 

He blinked and looked down at the 
gloAving tip of his cigar. The blue veins in 
his thin hands reminded me of ancient 
prejudices—but they were the fruit of his 
manners, and not of his birth. We had 
called him “ The Panther ” at Webb’s. No 
Avord could have described him so well. 

“ Why have I come here ? That’s an odd 
question. I thought you’d be glad to see 
me. Anything else ? No, I think not, 
Alfred Hilliard.” 

“ Let’s see,” said I, “ it Avould be sixteen 
years since you left Webb’s ? That’s a long 
time. I didn’t remember your name this 
morning—until you’d ridden aAvay.” 

He threAV the ash from his cigar AAith an 
odd little jerk and laughed hardly. 

“ Who’s the parson chap—the man Avho 
speaks French like a bullfighter ? I like the 
cut of his jib. Is he a chum of yours ?” 

“ He is one of my oldest friends.” 

“ So ; and you’re holiday-making in Calais. 
Rum place for a picnic, eh ? The great 
Sahara and Southend-on-Sea playing pitch- 
and-toss together. You’ve reasons—I AAmn’t 
([uarrel Avith them ; but the other chap, 
he’s peculiar tastes, hasn’t he ? ” 

“ Do his tastes concern you ? ” 

“ Me—good Lord ! If he drank himself 


PRO PATRIA. 


47 


to death to-morrow in buttermilk, what’s 
that to me ? Nice chap, thougl]. 1 thought 
lie was going to put me through the 
Catechism when he picked me up this 
morning. Say, you’ve a good car. You 
didn’t buy that at a dime store, I’ll wager. 
My park hack took the same view. He 
isn’t used to money.” 

“ I hope you Averen’t hurt ? ” said I. 

“Ask the steel bar I Avas carrying. I 
think you bruised it a bit. But I’m an old 
one. They’A^e chucked me off a derrick 


tAvice, and here I am. Do I look the 
Avorse ? ” 

“Not a great deal. It’s my turn for 
questions. What have you been doing these 
sixteen years ? ” 

“ Learning to become a Frenchman. You 

turned me out of England. By-! I hated 

some of you. But you Averen’t among ’em. 
I ahvays thought you were a gentleman. 
The others—well, I’ll Avipe my boots on 
them some day, as sure as the Lord made us 
of a different colour.” 

There Avas always, I knew, in this man’s 


mind the sore of his colour and of that 
Avhich he believed to be the due of it. He 
had told me, eA^en as a boy, that he hated 
the “ Avhite man.” No argument could 
modify that rankling consciousness of an 
inferiority Avhich his imagination detected. 
He hated his felloAvs because they Avere not 
as he. And his temperament followed the 
traditions of his race. Where he could not 
bully he faAvned. 

“I’m sorry to hear you speak like that, 
Jeffery. There Avere feAv at Webb’s Avho 
Avould not have helped you if 
they could. You did not let 
them-” 

“No, the SAvine ! I wanted 
none of their help.” 

“But that’s no reason for 
hating them ? ” 

He threw himself back in his 
chair and laughed brutally. 

“ Let’s talk of something 
else,” he said. “ Your pal. 
Hardy, what’s lie doing ? ” 

“ He’s at WooIaaucIi, doing 
well.” 

“ Married ? ” 

“ A year-” 

“ And one child ? ” 

“ Yes, there’s a child.” 

“ Ah, Hardy AA^as one of 
them. I’ll not forget him—in 
liell or out of it! ” 

“You Avere going to speak of 
something else—something more 
pleasant.” 

“ Yes ; AA'hisky. That’s what 
I Avant to speak of. I’m as dry 
as biscuits. Suppose Ave Avash 
out the Colonel’s Bordeaux. 
Filtliy stuff, my chum, filthy 
stuff; but he likes it. Let’s 
drink to his daughter.” 

I rang the bell and ordered 
Avhiskies and sodas. 

“ Colonel Lepeletier is a friend 
of mine. The less said about him the 
better. Haven’t you another subject ? I’m 
anxious to knoAv Avhere you have been since 
I saAv you last. By Jove ! it really is sixteen 
years ago.” 

“ Mix me three fingers, and I’ll tell you. 
So; don’t droAvn it. Another cigar —I 
thank you.” 

He drank his Avhisky, the half of it at a 
gulp, and settled himself in his chair. The 
deep-set, steely eyes turned upon me curiously. 

Again I said that they avIio named him 
“ The Panther ” named him Avell. 











48 


TFIH WINDSOR. MAOAZTNE. 


“You made a (fiiick exit to-night,” lie 
exclaimed jocularly, avoiding my question, 
as his habit was. “ The old man said you 
were queerish ; you don’t look it.” 

“ I—oh. I’m all right—a little busi¬ 
ness-■” 

“ Down on the bathing-shore, eli ? Well, 
I won’t intrude. ‘ Meet me by moonlight 
alone,’ eh ? But I thought it was an off¬ 
shore wind, and you puzzled me.” 

“ That must have been amusing.” 

“ Oil, it was. I’d made up the story, and 
you come along and alter the best chapter. 
Old colonel—young daughter—milord the 
Englishman. Colonel’s duty compels him 
to say ‘No.’ Mustn’t pal with the English. 
Milord, the Englishman, bounces out of the 
house and goes to sharpen a sword on the 
pier buttress. Coffee for two, to-morrow, 
and daughter’s tears to sweeten it. Say, 
she’s a pretty girl.” 

He had touched me to the quick, and 
another word might have sent him head¬ 
long from the room. But a sentence ho 
had spoken bitted my tongue and brought 
me to a point of curiosity beyond any 
I had touched. 

“ What particular duty put upon Colonel 
Lepeletier by his command at Calais should 
cause him to show me incivility ? ” I asked 
carelessly, bidding my annoyance under a 
pretence of amusement. He answered it 
off-hand. 

“ Oh, I know nothing about that. These 
French soldiers have odd notions, that’s all. 
He may think that you and he are to meet 
across a sabre some day. Who knows—who 
the devil knows ? as messieurs the Spaniards 
say. Have you seen his coal-pits, by the 
way ? ” 

“ The works at Escalles ? No, I understand 
they are not to be seen.” 

He half closed his eyes and I thought 
that he watched me closely while he spoke. 

“ Officially, no, of course not. But there 
might be a way in.” 

“ I have no curiosity on the point.” 

“No curiosity ? And you call yourself an 
Englishman ? ” 

“ Yes,'but not a spy.” 

He rose to his feet and began to laugh as 
a man in a maudlin condition bordering 
upon intoxication. 

“ I’ll drink your health, old sport,” he 
said. “ If you want to see the place where 
the coal comes from, you follow an old chum. 
I’ll show you two fortunes not fifty feet 
below high-water mark. Say you’re a friend 
of Sadi Martel—oh, you’ll keep my secret. 


old pard, you won’t l)low on one of the 
boys ? ” 

“ I'm not likely to do that, especially 
under the circumstances.’’ 

“ Ah ! the circumstances. Old boy’s hon¬ 
our and that sort of thing. Well, so long. 
It’s a pity to leave good liquor, isn’t it. 
Let’s fill another glass. Here’s to the little 
lady who can’t get married because La France 
says ‘No.’ A bumper and no heel-taps—ah ! 
that does a man good.” 

He drained a tumbler and then staggered 
to the door. But lie had wits enough to cry 
“ Grood-night ” to me in French, as he stood 
upon the threshold, and returning for an 
instant to the room he took me by the 
lapel of the coat and whispered a con¬ 
fidence. 

“ You won’t be so glad you’re an English¬ 
man next year, pard—no, by-! ” 

And with that he went away and left me 
standing by the table to wonder at the odd 
notions which come to men whose reason is 
bartered at so low a price. 


CHAPTEK IV. 

AT TWO OROATS STERLING-. 

It was characteristic of Harry Fordham 
that you could never catch his laughter 
napping. Sunshine or rain, good news or ill 
—there was the man and there the jest to 
lift the clouds of your misfortune, or to rub 
out the tidings which had troubled you. To 
one over-given to gloom and saturnity (for 
this picture of myself I must admit), there 
was no finer antidote in all the kingdoms 
than the merry consolations of that irre¬ 
pressible humour. And to it he added a 
measure of common sense more generous 
than the Church is apt to bestow. “ Make a 
man and you make a Christian,” was the 
keystone of his teaching. He spent his days, 
I witness, in making men. 

Harry had returned from the Colonel’s 
house when Eobert Jeffery left the hotel, 
and as soon as he heard the fellow’s steps 
upon the stairs he came across to my room 
and seated himself deep in an armchair, as 
though it had been a natural thing for me to 
leave Lepeletier as I had done, and to steal 
away without a single word to Agnes or the 
others. As ever, he wore an old Trinity 
coat, and carried in his hand the colossal 
pipe which had been the envy even of the 
hardy smokers of the shires. But his slippers 
were remarkable—a sample, as he professed, 
from tlie two hundred pairs which the 





PRO PATRIA, 


49 


flock ” had worked for liiin, and which, 
some dav, he would bequeath to a slipper- 
loving nation. 

“ Mj son,” ^ lie said pathetically, as he 
lighted the giant bowl with loving care, 
‘‘ my son, I do not like your friends. 
Apparently they have recently partaken in 
this very room of certain intoxicating liquors 
which are offensive to me. Whisky upon 
Bordeaux. J^ehold an atrocity ! Eed, white, 
and (in the morning) blue. The national 
colours. Let us set them an example and 
consume the veriest drop in all the world of 
the spirit they call brandy. Add thereunto 
what the waiter calls ‘ syphon,’ and I am a 
happy man.” 

I rang for the waiter and ordered the 
Cognac. The work of filling my own pipe 
seemed long and laborious that night. Harry 
watched me observantly. I knew that he 
was asking himself how he should begin. 

‘‘ Well,” he exclaimed presently, and with¬ 
out a shadow of warning, “ what said papa ? 
])ou’t you see I’m dying with curiosity ? ” 

I struck a match and held it up while I 
answered him. 

“Lepeletier desires me to leave Calais 
to-morrow.” 

Harry laughed long and loudly. The 
waiter who came in with the glasses stared at 
him in mute and French amazement. To 
me his humour was as water upon my back. 

“ The reasons,” he cried—“ the reasons for 
this madness ? ” 

“ I did not ask them.” 

He regarded at me with blank amazement. 

“ You did not ask them—not ask his 
reasons ? ” 

“Not a word of them.” 

Great Solomon! Here’s a man who 
will take another man’s ‘ No ’ and go away 
witliout reasons. Alfred, you are very 
young, my boy.” 

“ I am one-and-thirty, Harry.” 

“ In years ; in discretion, one without the 
thirty. I pass on. Tell me what the aged 
one said.” 

“If I remember it—principally, I think, 
that he would an he could, but could not. 
The rest I divined. A French officer does 
not marry his daughter to a captain of 
FnglishHussars—FranceAvould not approve.” 
France what has France got to do with 
France going to pay her dressmaker? 
Odd rot France ! I’ll tell him so to-morrow.” 

“ Would that help matters ? ” 

“We’ll see. I’ve promised to go over to 
Dunkerque with him.” 

“ Seriously, you do not take my view ? ” 


“ I value it at two groats sterling. How 
far does a man in love ever see ? Wliat 
business has he not to be blind ? You’re as 
blind as a bat, my son, and as proud as an 
hidalgo when his toes are trodden on.” 

I am proud enougli to leave a man’s 
house when he asks me.” 

“To leave a man’s fiddlesticks ! And a 
pretty girl crying her eyes out in the dra^Hng- 
room.” 

“ Agnes is not likely to do that.” 
Figuratively, blockhead. She laughed all 
the evening. But a little and she would have 
made me sing in tune. I told her you had 
business at the hotel—Heaven forgive me ! ” 
“ It was true. I found your French en¬ 
gineer when I came in. Of course I was 
right. He is Eobert Jeffery, after all.” 

For a moment Pfarry was serious. 

hat s the fellow doing in France, 
then ? ” 

“Superintending the new coal-workings. 
He always promised to make a first class 
engineer.” 

‘‘Ah, with a third class character. You 
can’t ride in two carriages at once, remember. 
Which class is he travelling in now ? ” 

“ The buffet-car, apparently — near the 
bottles.” 

“ Then look out for collisions. He seems 
on good terms up at Lepeletier’s. The 
Colonel’s hand and glove with liim. Miss 
Agnes, I notice, is merely on finger-tip 
terms. That’s lucky, anyway.” 

I treated the suggestion with contemi}t, 
but the sting of it remained. 

“He has my word that we do not give 
him away. But, at legist, do not ask me to 
be jealous of him.” 

“ I wouldn’t for the world. There is only 

one request this hour suggests-” 

“And tliat-?” 

“Bed—bed, my captain. To-morrow, at 
nine of the clock, I leave for Dunkerque. 
An honest train and no stink-pots. the 
time you are thinking of dinner I shall be 
here to sing ‘All’s Well’ with you. Of 
course I shall. Am I the man to take 
‘ No ’ for an answer ? By my halibut ! she 
shall be mine—yours, that is.” 

I laughed at his nonsense. 

“I wish to Heaven I could think so, 
Harry.” 

He put his hand upon my shoulder and 
bade me good-niglit affectionately — more 
affectionately than lie had ever done. 

“I will leave no word unsaid that shall 
help the man who is the best friend to me 
in all the world.” 


E 




50 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


I knew that he would not. I knew that 
if there were one in Calais who could win 
back that which I had lost, it was Harry 
Fordhain, the parson of Cottesbrook. 

And I slept upon the promise of his words, 
upon that and his cheery optimism ; and in 
my sleep I dreamed neither of Agnes nor of 
my love for her, but, strangely, of my coun¬ 
try and of her safety. For a man had said 
tliat, before the year was out, I should be 
sorry to be an Englishman. 

Even in sleep I knew that he lied. 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE MOUTH OF A GKEAT SECRET. 

There was a drizzling rain of morning 
falling when I had breakfasted next day. 
The few wlio sought the blighted anuusements 
which Calais, alfoixls to tliat rara avis, a 
visitor, went limply and with little spirit to 
the morning bath and the forlorn Casino. 
Nor was I, myself, in better humour. A 
night’s rest found me witli but little hope of 
Harry or his promise. What could be done, 
that I knew he would do ; but my logic 
wore a greyer robe than his, and the man 
who had whispered the lirst hint of the 
truth persuaded me against myself. Some 
graver motive lay behind Colonel Lepeletier’s 
talk with me. I suspected already that it 
was fear of his own duty, reluctance to vvar 
against that destiny whicli had made of him 
a French engineer and of me an English 
officer of Hussars. 

Harry had left for Dunkerque at eight 
o’clock, they told me ; but it Avas nearly ten 
before I quitted my hotel and Avandered 
aimlessly to tlie Gare Maritime, the place 
where the land-lubbers come from—as the 
parson always spoke of it. The morning 
boats steamed in Avith dripping decks and 
busy sailors, and Paris-bound incapables all 
pitiful to see, but found me Avithout 
amusement or interest. The freshness of 
the morning, the racing seas AAdiich gambolled 
in beds of foam, the close-pointed smacks, 
the busy Channel life, and Dover clearly 
to be seen in the after-lights of rain, moved 
me to a certain impatience as unreasonable 
as inexplicable. While I Avould tell myself 
in one breath that Lepeletier’s Avords last 
night were typical of a mood which a day 
would change, I Avould say in the next that 
they Avere irrevocable as the seas Avhich rolled 
westward to the sandy beaches and their 
Inwen beneath Gris-Nez. The Avisdom of 
years spoke cruelly to my youth of desire 


Avhen it reminded me of the gulf that lies 
between one nation and another. For 1 had 
not remembered it, had seen only the face of 
one dear to me beyond any face my life had 
shoAvn me. 

Questions without ansAvers, books Avithout 
stories, an hour at the Casino, another upon 
the beach, a visit to the pierhead Avhen the 
afternoon boat came in—behold my day ! 
Impatient ahvays, impatience grew upon me 
then as a fever. AYliat Avas Harry doing ? 
Why did he not send me a telegram ? 
Where AA^as Agnes ? Had her father spoken 
to her ? Would she send me any word of 
her OAvn ? Once or tAvice, let me confess, I 
Avent as far as the Jardin Richelieu to AATitch 
her house and to reap as a reAvard those 
quickening emotions Avhich the home of one 
we love ever stirs Avithin us. Ugly and 
commonplace to the point of brutality as it 
was, the Colonel’s house then pictured itself 
in my mind as some scene of passing 
happiness and content. But there was no 
cne about its door AAdien 1 stood in the 
gardens to Avatcli it upon that unforgotten 
day—and jignes, as I learned from an 
acquaintance at a later hour, had driven her 
ponies to Marquise to visit a relative there. 
But I did not lament my cccupation, and 
AA^ould have gone to the house though no 
human thing AA^ere destined to tenant it again. 

It had been already late in the afternoon 
when Dr. WoodAvard, one of the English 
doctors at Calais, spoke of Agnes and her 
ponies upon the Paris road. I let another 
hour go by in the hope that some wind of 
fortune Avould send Harry prematurely to 
the hotel again ; but Avhen four o’clock Avas 
struck by the harbour bells, and there Avas no 
sign of him, the idea came to me that I 
Avould run a little Avay out toAvard Marquise 
upon my car, perchance in the hope of 
meeting Agnes, perchance in the mere resolve 
to kill time ; for all my thoughts AA^ere 
abroad, aud I had no clear purpose either of 
intent or action. When my man liad 
brought the carriage to the door, and Ave had 
threaded the suburb of St. Pierre and passed 
the barrier, AvestAvard, to the high road, I 
began to Avonder what folly had kept me at 
the hotel all day, and why I liad left my 
new car idle. At least I Avas doing some¬ 
thing noAV. The fresh Avind, the saturated 
air, the galloping seas, the joy of speed, 
excited me to a new optimism and a better 
mood. Even the ugliest road in Europe— 
for such you may call the route from CMais 
to Boulogne, Avith its sandy dunes, its linie- 
kihis, its dykes, its desolation - could not 




A vast activity.’’ 











52 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


abate my humour. The clouds would lift 
to-morrow, I said. There are days in every 
life when they loom above us and we cannot 
see the sun. But the sun is there all the 
same, and a little word of courage will lift 
the darkest horizon. 

There were few upon the road—peasants 
trudging to Calais, a couple of troopers 
riding at the trot, a doctor in the oddest 
buggy I have ever seen, a priest, a fisherman. 
As we drew near to the great Government 
works above Escalles I remembered for an 
instant the visit which the man Jeffery had 
paid me yesterday, and all the drunken 
innuendo he then had uttered. But a greater 
interest prevailed above it, an interest of the 
road itself, and of a carriage which must pass 
upon it presently. The idea grew upon me 
now that I must see Agnes; must hear 
from her own lips as much as my honour and 
my word to her father permitted me to know. 
Here upon the road to Marquise the oppor¬ 
tunity should be found. 

I say that we drew near to the great works 
at Escalles, and it was here for the first time 
that Bell, my engineer, checked our speed 
and began to remember that he had a brake. 
A taciturn man always, with no neck to 
speak of for a car to crack, as he put it 
grimly, I came to regard him as a part of 
the machine he drove, an automaton, a 
mute. On that particular afternoon I can 
remember no word that he uttered from the 
Porte St. Pierre to Haut-Buisson ; but as 
we came to a walking pace to cross the rails 
by the workings, he jerked a thumb back¬ 
wards toward Calais and implied thereby 
that it was raining behind us, and that we 
should catch it presently. 

“ Going to be a storm, sir.” 

“Apparently there is one. Bell. Have 
you got the mackintoshes ? ” 

“ Oh, of course, sir.” 

“ Then go on slowly and let’s see what we 
make of it.” 

Certainly it was very black. Mists loomed 
above distant Gris-Nez, heavy clouds were 
beating in from the sea. At Calais it was 
raining already, and the contending sun cut 
prisms of light across the bending showers. 
But where miglit we-shelter if not in the 
Avorks ? I was debating the point when who 
should appear at the great gate of the 
first enclosure but Eobert Jeffery himself. 
For an instant he stared at me Avith as 
savage a look as I have ever seen upon the 
face of man. But it passed as quickly, and 
he came up to the car and stood peering up 
at me curiously. 


“ Where aAvay, my chum ? Avliere away so 
speedily ? ” 

“ Are you greatly concerned to know ? ” 

“ No ; I don’t care a scudo. But it’s a 
nice day for a picnic. Say, did you see two 
ponies and something behind them go past 
here just now ? ” 

“You are speaking of Mademoiselle Le- 
peletier ? ” 

“ On the head first time. Your old cara¬ 
van Avon’t catch her, my boy. She was 
through here at one o’clock.” 

“ That’s interesting. Much indebted for 
past favours. Are they going to open that 
gate and let me through ? ” 

You must know that they have laid a 
pair of rails for the light engines across the 
road by Haut-Buisson, and there is a gate 
Avhich an old Avatchman keeps. Usually he 
stood at attention Avhen I came up ; but I 
remember that lie Avas not there on that un¬ 
forgotten day, nor did I discover anyone else 
in his place. Bell told me afterAvards that 
Jeffery laughed Avhen I cried “ Gate ! ” I did 
not see him, or much that happened might 
go unrecorded here. Would it haA^e been 
for my country’s good, I ask ? God alone 
knoAVS. 

“The old flat-head’s off Avith the girls,’ 
said eTeffery suddenly. “Why doesn’t he 
ansAver ? Gosh ! there’s the rain coming, too. 
You’d better step inside, my chum. I’ve a 
bottle of something tOey label ginger-beer 
there, but the grocer made a mistake and I 
do believe it’s Avhisky. Come in and tell 
me.” 

Noav, I do not believe for a moment that I 
wanted to go in AAdth the man. Here and 
noAV, after all has been and is done Avith— 
may it be for our time and our children’s 
children !—I can record it that I would 
sooner have met any other man in Europe 
than Eobert Jeffery upon the road to Mar¬ 
quise. But the gate was shut, and a very 
deluge of rain began to fall; and there Avas 
the open door and the offer of shelter, and, 
to cut it short, against my Avill, against my 
judgment, I got doAvn from the car and pre¬ 
pared to go in Avith him. 

“ Eun your Pickford’s van into the shed 
yonder,” he said, becoming busy upon the 
instant. “ The man can stop there. I dare¬ 
say you Avon’t be fiA^e minutes. We’ll just 
pull a cork and see Avhat the clouds say. 
There’s a sentry here, but he’s not as fierce 
as he looks—not to friends of mine. Say, 
old PinV ins is out on the spree to-night, 
isn’t he ? ” 

He pushed open the gate, and the sentry 


FRO FATRIA. 


53 


stood to the salute. As we passed through 
the great door it was iiistautlj bolted and 
barred behind us. I did not like the sound 
of the key in the lock, but thought no more 
of it as Jeffery led the way across a paved 
enclosure to a little office under the shelter 
of a wooden wall. There I asked him a 
question. 

“ You are quite sure that they would not 
mind my coming in here ? ” 

“ Why should they mind, sonny ? ” 

“ I understood in Calais that strangers 
were forbidden the works.” 

‘‘ Ah, the military works ; but we’re in the 
coal-pits. You don’t suppose I should go 
fooling you around the forts, do you ? What 
a mug you must take me for ! ” 

He laughed with tliat resonant, unpleasant 
laugh of his, and turned the key in the office 
door. When we were inside he produced 
a bottle of good Scotch whisky and two 
tumblers. 

“Just a thimbleful to keep out the cold. 
I don’t drink in the daytime usually, but 
this is an occasion. Besides, it keeps the 
inside of the ship dry. Here’s to your 
friends down yonder, especially the pretty 
one. That’s a toast you’ll drink, sonny, I 
make sure.” 

I avoided the point and began to speak of 
the works again. All that I could see through 
the little window of his office betrayed a vast 
activity, the labour of countless navvies, the 
snorting and puffing of engines, the whirr of 
cranes, the ceaseless rattle of chains and 
buckets. Interest was compelled. He 
watched me as one amused and filled his 
glass again. 

“ Plenty to do here, eh. Captain ? Why, 
yes, we don’t catch cold. I’ve been on since 
six this morning, and if I get to bed at two 
o’clock it will be a sort of night off. But it’s 
nothing to what they do over the pond 
yonder. That makes me tired.” 

“ Were yon long in America ? ” 

“ Three years in Mexico and five in French 
Griiiana. After that I went out West and 
tried a couple of railways in Texas. I’ve 
seen some life—my ! ” 

“ And learned to pass for a Frenchman ? ” 

“ Oh, as for that, I speak the lingo, and my 
yarns of Mexico do the rest. They say I’ve 
got a twang, but don’t believe ’em. It’s 
good enough for such cattle, anyway.” 

He laughed at his own irony, and then 
looking at me siiarply, as I had seen him look 
twice already (and more particularly when 
they shut the gate upon us), he put a 
question. 


“ You were crossing over to-night, weren’t 
you ? ” 

“ To Dover, you mean ? ” 

“ Aye, that’s so. I heard you mention it, I 
thought.” 

“ Well, I was going to-morrow.” 

“ And your pal, the parson ? ” 

“ Oh, I am not Fordham’s keeper.” 

“ Good sort, eh ? Hone of your hustlers, 
with the hat crown down. Suppose we have 
another tot and look round. It’s clearing a 
bit, I see.” 

The heavy storm had swept over by that 
time, and now a great yellow sun glowed pale 
and watery in a lialo of fantastic light away 
above distant Cape Gris-Nez. In" another 
hour it would set, and Harry would be 
waiting for me at the Meurice. I was im¬ 
patient to have done with it; but the man 
led me on in spite of myself. 

“Just a minute,” he said, “we’ll go and 
see the pits.” 

“ But what about my lights ? ” 

“You won’t want ’em. Come along. I 
have to make a round, and you’ll see some¬ 
thing. Ever been down a coal-pit. Captain ? ” 

“ I can’t say that I have.” 

“ Then yon shall go down one now. Come 
along, old sport. It’s a treat to see old faces 
—I’m right glad you looked in.” 

He drank another “ tot ” of the whisky 
at a gulp and passed out to the yard. To 
argue with, him would have been to defeat 
myself. I determined to have done with it, 
and to see the “ pits ” as he desired. I knew 
no more than tlie dead that I walked with a 
man wlio had set a trap for me. 

It was quite fine when we left his office, 
and there was even a glow of the ebbing 
sunlight upon all those dreary acres and the 
grasslands beyond them. Away at sea (and 
we were four miles from the seashore as 
I made it out) the aftermath of storm 
gave a glorious serenity of scene and atmo¬ 
sphere, a clearness of vision which showed me 
the white cliffs of Dover, the Foreland, and 
all the fresh life of the Channel, as in some 
surpassing picture of Nature’s painting. 
Calais itself I could perceive as a collection 
of roofs and spires below the outline of the 
furthest cliff. There were hamlets upon the 
sloping sides of the westward hills, pasture- 
lands beyond them, and, to dominate all, the 
great Cape whose flashing light we point to 
at Dover, whose headland first welcomes the 
landsman as he labours in the agony of 
passage. All about me, however, was a 
spectacle more wonderful tlian these. We 
had passed as through some magic door to a 


54 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


very Inferno of clamorous labour, to fields 
which had become quagmires, to armies of 
swarming workmen, to scenes of a great 
enterprise of which those who passed by the 
outer gate might not have dreamed in a 
hundred years. And these were the “ pits” ? 
I asked. Already some great, some indefin¬ 
able doubt dogged my steps. Whither was I 
going ? AYhy had I followed Jeffery ? Why 
did he show me these things ? I could not 
tell you then. To-day I would say that it 
was my destiny. 

A first enclosure, vast and marshy, and 
everywhere teeming with life, Ave trod Avarily, 
observed, as it seemed to me, very closely by 
those Avho Avorked there, but challenged by 
none. Heavy, buttressed masonry, AAdiich I 
could have SAVorn Avas the rampart of a fort, 
stood as the dividing line betAveen this outer 
court and a second enclosure Avhich lay 
beyond it and still nearer to the sea. Here 
again sentries patrolled the rampart and stood 
Avarders of its gate. But Ave passed them 
at a nod from Jeffery, and traversing a little 
tunnel of the buttress Ave stood out in a 
tremendous Avorking, AA'hich, AAdiatever it 
might haA^e been, had neither the aspect nor 
the shape of a pit’s moutli. For my part, I 
could not even conceiv^e a project, milifiiry or 
civil, Avhich might provoke such activity or 


employ so numerous an army. Here, as in 
the outer yard, ballast-trains moved every- 
Avhere, their trucks rolling under loads of 
oozy chalk, their little engines speaking of 
the contractor and his business. The shriek 
of AAdiistles, the burr of the crane, the jarring 
of steel bars, the odd chantings of the Avorkers, 
united in that discordant note of labour 
AA’hich only the largest undertakings may 
strike. I said that never Avere coal-pits such 
as tliese. And I Avent on obstinately, seem¬ 
ing to realise that it was dangerous to go. 

A second line of ramparts, tunnelled as the 
others, and leading to a third enclosure yet 
nearer tlie seashore, brought Jeffery for the 
first time to a standstill. He pointed out 
to me the mouth of a great inclined railAvay 
AA’hich appeared to dip doAvn in a A’ast cutting 
straight to the boAA’els of the earth. I did 
not ask him what the cutting was, but he told 
me. 

“ Yonder,” lie said, “ yonder’s the place Ave 
get our coal from, chummy. I¥e don’t go in 
for shafts here—oh, dear, no. AVe just Avalk 
down to our AA^allsend, the same as you Avalk 
down the Haymarket. Come along, my boy. 
I’ll shoAV you a finer sight than ever you saAV 
in your life.” 

• And so I Avent Avith him to the heart of 
the peril. 


{To he continued.) 









THE QUEEN’S 
CONVEYANCES. 


By GtEOHge a. Wade. 


THE ROYAL SEDAN CHAIR. 


A lthough the Queen this year gave up 
her journey to the Continent in order 
to stay with lier people, her Majesty 
lias in no wise lost lier love of travel. As it 
is, she has heen to Ireland, and before long 
will go northward again for her usual autnnin 
sojourn at Bahnoral. But the venerable 
Sovereign travels, of course, under the easiest 
possible conditions, and everything is done to 
obviate any exertion, fatigue, or discomfort. 

To begin Avith the conveyances Avliicli are 
for her Majesty’s use by road, the first 
mentioned must be the Coronation coacli. 
To the present generation this carriage is 
almost unknown, as it has iieA^er left tlie Boyal 
MeAvs at Buckingliam Palace since 18(n. 

This lovely, if 
cumbersome, ve¬ 
hicle AAms designed 
for George III. by 
Sir 'William Cham¬ 
bers. Every por¬ 
tion of it is richly 
decorated Avith 
gilded carving work, 
and the outside of 
the coach contains 
many panels on 
AAdiich are painted 
superb pictures by 
the finest artists of 
that period, Ciprani 
being the chief of 
them. On one door 
are represented 
jMars, Mercury, and 
Minerva, support¬ 
ing the Crown of 


Great Britain, and on the other door are 
shoAvn figures of Industry and Ingenuity 
presenting the Genius of England Vith a 
cornucopia, Avhilst History is recording the 
deeds of Fame. 

The body of the Coronation carriage 
consists of a representation of eight palm 
trees, which, branching out toAvards the top, 
form a support for tlie roof of the vehicle, 
and in the middle of the roof there are 
placed three boyish figures, representing 
England, Scotland and Ireland, lioldiug a 
crown. Tavo figures in front of the coach 
appear to be pulling it Avith cords round their 
shoulders, and are sounding shells to announce 
the approacli of the “ Ocean’s M'onarcli ” ; 
Avliilst the back of the veliicle is splendidly 
decorated Avith the Royal Aians, the Order of 
St. George, and the Rose, Shamrock and 
Thistle. Tlie total length of the carriage is 
24 feet and its lieight is 12 feet, the Avhole 
Aveigliing no less than four tons. 

But beautiful as the C^oronation coach is, 
lined inside Avitli rich scarlet embossed velvet, 
and decorated outside Avitli such gorgeous 
gilding, painting, and carving, the famous 
carriage lias never been much favoured for 
State use by the Queen. It is too clumsy, 


I^hoto byl 


•' [//. V. Kiny, O'oldliawk Jioad, II'. 

THE queen’s favourite CLOSED STATE COACH. 


55 









56 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


too heav}^ too jolting for her Majesty, in 
these days of lightness, luxury, and speed on 
the roads. In the good old days of King 
George III. this coach was considered to be 
the acme of comfort and ease in travelling ; 
to-day it is far beliind the times in these 
respects. Yet no conveyance of modern 
times can compare with it as a snmptnons 
carriage for the roads, with its painted panels, 
that alone are worth £7,000. It also remains 
one of onr most interesting links Avith past 
methods of travelling in England, before 
railways were invented, and when motor-cars 
were nidcnown. 

The next State conveyance used by the 
Queen to be noticed is the one she has 
generally favoured upon ceremonious occa¬ 
sions when a closed carriage has been neces- 


eight cream-coloured horses which are kept 
in the stables of Buckingham Palace. These 
Hanoverians, Avith. their harness of red 
morocco leather and their grooms at their 
heads, make a very imposing spectacle. 

Of late the Queen has more often preferred 
an open carriage for her State appearances, 
as, for example, on the occasion of the 
Jubilee, and on her visit to Sheffield a feAV 
years ago. In such a case one of the best 
of the ordinary landaus at the Palace MeAvs 
is generally brought into requisition. These 
Iloyal carriages differ but little from many 
of those of the aristocracy, save that they 
are of regal size and upholstery. The latter 
is of dark blue cloth, and there are ahvays a 
number of these carriages kept in the MeAvs 
ready for use. 



[//. X. King, Goldhawk Road, W. 


Photo by'\ 


THE CORONATION COACH 


sary. This has been used by her Majesty 
Avhen opening Parliament in person, and for 
many State or semi-State processions she 
much prefers it to the Coronation coach 
previously mentioned. 

Bound the top of this second coach is some 
lovely carving, all richly gilt, of roses, sham¬ 
rocks and thistles. On the roof itself is the 
representation of a cushion bearing the 
Eoyal CroAAm. The interior decorations are 
very charming, the upholstery being done in 
light blue silk. So perfectly is the vehicle 
strung on its strong springs that, despite its 
size, it moves along AAdth such ease and 
lightness that the occupant scarcely feels any 
motion. 

When her Majesty uses this carwage on 
State occasions it is draAvn by the famous 


Her Majesty likeAAuse uses a carriage of 
this description Avhen she takes her daily 
drive either at London or at Windsor. But 
in this case she is generally draAvn by tAVO 
])airs of greys, Avitli outriders, the Queen 
shoAving a marked preference at present for 
this colour in her private carriage horses. 
On such occasions she is attended by a maid- 
of-honour and by one or two equerries. 
Only AAdien the weather is either very wet or 
piercingly cold does the Queen driAm out for 
her constitutional in a closed vehicle. 

Ijastly, amongst her driving conveyances 
we must not omit to mention the small 
phaeton and the donkey carriage AAdiich die 
SoA'creign uses for her daily drives Avithin the 
bounds of the Royal residences. Of late 
years the Queen has almost given up the 



Till*: OIIDIXAIIV DRIVING CARRIAGE. 


phaeton she formerly kept for this purpose, 
and lias employed the donkey carriage 
instead. 

Tlie latter is made to carry two persons 
only, sitting side by side, and so is admirably 
adapted for the drives of tlie Qneen and 
the Princess Beatrice. When the latter does 
not accompany her Royal mother the donkey 
is led by the groom. In any case the pace 
is seldom more than a walk or a very easy 
trot, and the Qneen often takes the reins in 
hand herself. 

The donkey carriage has a top which can 


be raised to keep off the liot snn or rain ; it 
is made of liasket-work and is very liglit. 
Its^ steps have been arranged specially to 
facilitate lier Majesty’s getting in and out ; 
they nearly touch the ground, and the bottom 
of the phaeton will be noticed to be very 
low. It is more than probable that the 
Queen now prefers the little donkey-chaise to 
all the cari'iages in the Royal stables, since 
she derives more pleasure and recreation 
from it than from all the rest put together. 

When our Sovereign wislies to travel by 
railway very elaborate preparations are neces- 



THE DONKEY CARRIAGE. 


{Gunn d- Stuart, Richmond. 












58 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




Photo by'] 


IIEll :MA.IKSTY’s saloon, LONDON AND NOllTII 

sary. There are at least two trains that 
may be dignified by the title of “ Royal.” 
One of them is the property of tlie Great 
AVestern Railway Company, and the other of 
the London and Xorth-AVestern Coinpany. 
The former of these is tlie train wliich her 
Majesty uses Avhen she travels to and from 
London and Windsor for snch events as the 
Lrawing-Rooms, etc. It is a train of^ the 
corridor hnild and is most Inxnrionsly fitted 
np, l)eing painted in chocolate and cream 
colours, and consisting of at least six 
carriages. 

This train was built specially for the Queen 
to commemorate the Jubilee three years ago, 
and it is said to have cost in its entirety over 
£40,000 to the 
Great AA'estern Rail¬ 
way. This Com¬ 
pany also built a 
new waiting-room 
on the station plat¬ 
form at AA^indsor 
especially for Royal 
use, as a memento 
of the Jubilee. 

But the train 
which is, 2 oar excel- 
knee, the Royal ” 
train, is the one 
that carries her 
Majesty to Scotland 
and back when the 
Court goes to Bal¬ 
moral. This belongs 


to the Tiondon and 
North-AV ester 11 
Railway Com])any. 
The train invariably 
consists of twelve 
vehicles when it is 
fully made np, the 
Royal saloons being 
exactly in the 
centre. These in¬ 
clude a sitting-room, 
a bedroom, and a 
dining-room. The 
windows are wide 
and are warmly 
curtained by heavy 
green curtains, 
green being perhaps 
her Majesty’s 
favourite colour for 
the drapery of win¬ 
dows and beds. 
Every part of the 
rooms is gorgeously 
fitted up, the suite of the saloon being of 
satinwood, inlaid, and the chairs, settees, 
etc., being covered with blue silk. Even 
the door-handles are gold-plated, and the 
floors are covered with thick carpets of 
velvet |)ile, whilst the saloons are brilliantly 
lighted in dull weather. 

' Small tables, cages of pet birds, books, and 
the usual impedimenta winch the Queen 
carries with her on 

all her journeys are - 

there. Outside the 


[Russell & Sons, Raker Street, U 
WESTERN RAILWAY. 


Photo by] 


[Russell, Windsor. 


THE ROYAL TRAIN. 










THE QUEEN\S CONVEYAXCES, 


59 



roofs of the train r* 
are painted white, 
and inside they are 
either upholstered, 
or painted and 
decorated in light 
colours. 

Until a short 
time ago the car¬ 
riages were lighted 
by gas, her Majesty 
being most con¬ 
servative in snch 
matters, but now 
the incandescent 
light is l)eing 
brought into use 
here as in the Koyal palaces. 

Electric bells are practically all over the 
train, so that the Queen can at once call her 
attendants, whose rooms adjoin her own, or 
she can in a few seconds have the ti’ain 
stopped, should she so desire, by touching an 
electric bell that tells the guard and engine- 
driver of her wish. " 

On a table in her saloon is always laid 
beforehand a time-table, wliicli gives every 
particular relating to tlie journey she is 
making. This time - table is artistically 
printed in mauve, on wliite paper. The 
Royal Arms surmount it, and it is bordered 
by a narrow gold band. 

The steps of.the Royal saloons are worth 
notice. They let down to the ground like 
those of^ an ordinary State-carriage, so that 
her Majesty has no fatigue in mounting 
them. It need scarcely be said that these 
railway carriages are placed upon springs as 
perfect as human ingennity can make tliem. 


[ II e.si <(: SonSy Southsea. 

IU)YaL yacht OSBORNE.” 

As one of the Princesses usually accojii- 
panies the Queen on these journeys, in 
addition to the twomaids-of-hononr, ecjuerries, 
secretaries, and railway directors, these have 
all to have their own apartments apportioned 
on tlie train. The ladies-in-waiting are 
always in the^ saloons next to the Queen, 
nearer the engine, while the equerries are in 
a carriage behind the Royal one. 

No special engine is adhered to, but there 
are two or three from which the selection is 
always made, these being naturally the best 
engines the Company possesses. The drivers 
and guards are similarly selected from the 
most trustworthy servants of the Comj)any 
and are changed as seldom as possible. Both 
the engine and the carriages of the Royal train 
liaye the Royal Arms painted upon them. 
It is worth noting that under no circnmstances 
whatever Avill her Majesty permit a higher 
rate of speed than thirty-five miles an hour. 

How many people know that tliere is still 



Photo ht/2 


. . - [Synwndit d Co., J>ortsmoidh, 

THE ORIGINAL KOYAL YACHT “ VICTORIA AND ALBERT,” WITH THE QUEEN ON BOARD. 






60 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


in existence a Royal sedan-cbair ? Yet such 
is the case, though her Majesty has never 
had occasion in these latter days of quick 
methods of travelling to make use of it. 
But the visitor to Windsor may have seen it 
near the entrance to the State apartments. 
It was often used by Queen Charlotte, and 
has her monogram, “ C. R.,” plainly marked 
on its sides. Except for its rather more 
sumptuous upholstery, there is little to 
differentiate it from the many sedan-chairs of 
the period to which it belonged. 

It is kept in a glass case, and its em¬ 
broideries are not nearly so much faded^ as 
one would have supposed. On the top of it 
is a gold, or rather gilt, crown on a cushion, 
and the front is hung with silk drapery and a 
fringe. Two large tassels hang from it, and 
the sides above the monogram are decorated 
with a crown. The bottom part of the chair 
is of red morocco, and rests upon a Royal Lion 
and Unicorn in gilt work. It is at present 
without its staves. 

For many years the sedan - chair lay 
unheeded in one of the many lumber-rooms 
of the Castle, and when it was discovered, so 
little was known about it that it was believed 
at first to have been a relic of the time of 
Charles I., and the initials on it seemed to 


favour this view. But when its history began 
to be inquired into, the real meaning of 
the “ C. R.” soon became clear. 

There are few people who are aware that 
the Queen has stiU a Royal Barge-Master, 
though the barge itself is now a thing of the 
past, as far as the Queen’s use of it is concerned. 
The old barge used for so many generations 
by Royalties, from the days of James I. 
onwards, now reposes in the South Ken¬ 
sington Museum, and will never more carry 
bevies of fair ladies and gallant gentlemen 
from Westminster to Hampton Court as in 
the olden days. Its last appearance in public 
was at the Fisheries Exhibition in the early 
eighties, and then it had to be sawn into 
two pieces before it could be got into the 
building. 

The barge was 63 feet long, and about 6 
feet wide, and she carried a complement of 
twenty-one oarsmen. Her speed was often, at 
its best, not less that from nine to ten miles 
an hour, so that she was not easily to be 
beaten on the Thames in her day. Her huU 
was oak - planked, and had a considerable 
rise at the stern. Passengers entered her by 
a landing stool, carried for use where no stage 
existed, which, when placed upon the beach, 
formed a gentle slope to the gunwale level. 



Photo by"] 


Ittymonds <fc Co., Portsmouth. 

DRAWING-ROOM ON THE ROYAL YACHT ‘‘ VICTORIA AND ALBERT.” 




















TEE QUEEN^S CONVEYANCES, 


G1 


f 



TIIK IlUVAL BAUCiE. 


Her state-room was near the stern, and 
extended the full width of the hnll, into 
which it was completely incorporated. It 
was about 5 feet 8 inches high, and was 
sumptuously gilded and furnished. Its 
upholstery was of scarlet and gold cloth, and 
the exterior of the barge itself was adorned 
by a number of carved mermaids, dolphins, 
fishes, etc. 

. It is not exactly known Avho was the 
maker of the gallant vessel, or in Avhat year 
she was first placed upon the Thames. Jlut 
she can be traced back to the time of 
James L, and Mr. Messenger, the Royal 
Barge-Master, gave me it as his opinion that 
the barge was made from some Yenetian 
model, if not actually by a Venetian work¬ 
man, in the “ City of the Sea ” itself. 

As to the last use of the barge by 
her Majesty, the same gentleman told me 
that he Avas appointed to his present post 
in the year 1862, but that he has never 
had the pleasure of rowing the Queen in the 
barge. It seems that the last occasion on 
AARich our Sovereign patronised the famous 
river craft Avas on the opening of the Coal 
Exchange in 1849, Avhen the Queen went 
from Whitehall Stairs to the City by way of 
the Thames, and used the barge for the 
purpose. Since then it has not been engaged 
in any State ceremony, for the days of slow 
travelling on the river are past, AAdien one can 
use the raihvay, and, moreover, tlie great river 
traffic noAA^adays has made such a journey far 
from being the easy and pleasant means of 
locomotion it used to'be. 

There is noAV a smaller barge, commonly 
called the “ Shallop,” which plies on Virginia 
Water for the use of Royalty, Avhen so 
disposed, though it must be said that tliat is 
not very often. This is the boat Avhich was 
brought doAvn the river, Avhen the Sultan of 
Turkey visited England a quarter of a 


century ago, to give his Majesty a river- 
trip. 

Speaking of the old barge and its master, 
AAdio, by the way, gets £60 a year from the 
Royal Household as his salary, we must not 
pass by those curious survivals of the same 
period, the “ Queen’s Watermen.” There 
are thirty-six of them Avho get each £8 10s. a 
year as wages, Avith 15s. each day, and their 
meals, when on duty. This duty aaus, of 
course, originally to roAV the Royal Barge, but 
noAV it is confined to taking visitors round the 
lake for a roAv on the occasion of a garden party 
at Buckingham Palace. Their costume is a 
very fine one, and consists of knee-breeches, 
silk stockings, Ioav shoes, a scarlet coat Avith 
silver facings, and a black velvet jockey cap. 
On the coat, both back and front, there is a 
silver badge of the Royal Arms, Avith V.R. 
at its side. 

These Avatermen, or three of them, have 
to be present Avhen the Sovereign opens 
Parliament in person—a surviA^al of the old 
days A\dien they had to go by Avater to fetch 
the Royal CroAvn and Maces from the Tower, 
and hand them to the monarch at the House 
of Lords. 

As regards the boats at Bnckingham 
Palace, Avhich may fairly be regarded as 
coming in the list of “ the Queen’s Convey¬ 
ances,” there are a feAV particulars that may 
prove interesting. Only a couple of these 
boats are kept there permanently. The 
others are brought Avhen required from 
Mr. Messenger’s place at Teddington, 
generally about ten or tAvelve of them, and 
there is a “ Queen’s Waterman ” to each. 
On the occasion of the last Jubilee they were 
much in evidence, and at State garden-parties 
on Avarm summer days they are Avell patron¬ 
ised. Except for a Royal flag at the stern 
of the boat, and occasionally a gay awning, 
they differ in no respect from the ordinary 





THE ]YINDS0R MAGAZINE, 


C)2 

river boats. The Queen, it need scarcely 
be said, has not had a row in them lately, 
but the younger members of the Royal 
Family often make use of them on such 
occasions. 

The Royal yachts, on the other hand, are 
much patronised by the Queen. There are 
at present four of these, the latest being 
tlie extremely fine vessel just completed, 
which, however, her Majesty has not yet 
used. 

When not in actual use all the Royal yachts 
are kept at Portsmouth. The smallest is the 
Alberta,, then comes the Osborne,, the largest 
of all being the newer of the two vessels 
christened Victoria and Albert. There is, too, 
a small tender called the Elfin, occasionally 
brought into requisition if needed. 

The Alberta is really a small steam yacht 
with paddles. Her hull is painted black, 
with yellow bands, and the upholstery of her 
state-rooms is in scarlet and blue. She is 
seldom used by the Queen herself, as her 
Majesty much prefers the larger yachts, 
which, are more roomy and commodious. 

The Osborne is a vessel of 1,850 tons 
and 1,800 horse-power. Except for her 
size, she is fitted up much like the Alberta, 
but there are more rooms for her Majesty’s 
use and for her guests. The Osborne is a 
very comfortable yacht, and is frequently 
brought into requisition when any of the 
Royal Family wish to visit Southern Europe 
by sea. She some months ago took H.R.H. 
the Princess of Wales on such a cruise. 
With the whole of the Royal Family this 
yacht is much in favour. 

The Queen herself, however, has for many 
years favoured the older Yic'oria and Albert. 
This is a steam yacht of 2,470 tons and 
some 2,400 horse-power. She is commanded 
by Rear-Admiral Fullerton, an experienced 
officer in whom her Majesty reposes the 
fullest confidence. When the Sovereign 
goes over to the Continent she as a rule 
uses this yacht, and generally makes a 
point of sleeping on board overnight on 
such occasions. 

The Victoria and Albert was built in the 
year 1855, so that she will soon be half a 
century old. There are three apartments set 
aside on the vessel for her Majesty’s private 
use. One of these is a bedroom. The bed 
is one of the old-fashioned order, with four 
posts. It is hung on every side with curtains, 
and is kept from moving, in the case of the 


yacht rolling in a swelling sea, by being 
fastened to the fioor. Next to this bedroom 
is a small sitting-room, and tlie other apart¬ 
ment is a dressing-room. 

Besides these rooms for tlie Queen there 
are others which are apportioned to various 
members of the Royal Family. These rooms 
are sumptuously fitted-up, much in the same 
style as those kept for her Majesty’s use. 
The upholstery in the state-rooms is of 
chintz, with a pattern of pretty rosebuds, 
and was chosen by the Prince Consort. His 
piano still stands in the drawing-room of the 
yaclit. All the usual furniture and nick- 
nacks of her Majesty’s rooms when at 
Osborne or AYindsor find their counterpart 
here on the Royal yacht. 

Lately there has been launched from Pem¬ 
broke Dockyard a new yacht, also christened 
the Victoria and Albert, for the Queen’s 
use. It will be much larger, better fitted 
than the others, and as sumptuous as pos¬ 
sible. Much of the interior is arranged 
in accordance with the Queen’s own ieleas 
and wishes. In length this yacht exceeds 
the older Victoria and Albert by 80 feet, 
and in breadth by 10 feet. Instead of 
having paddles, the new vessel is fitted 
with twin - screws, and all her cabin fit¬ 
tings are of fireproof wood. The yacht 
is built of steel, with her hull sheathed 
with copper. 

Outside, the new yacht is even more 
imposing. Round her hull run two imitation 
coils of rope, which are brilliantly gilded. 
These are 5 feet apart and over 700 feet 
long. There are also large shields on the 
sides of the yacht carrying the Royal Arms, 
the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, etc., and 
at the starboard quarter of the stern is placed 
a great figure of Britannia, 10 feet high, 
whilst a similar figure of Neptune is on the 
stern port side. 

The upholstery of the Royal apartments 
is of the same style and pattern as on the 
old Victoria and Albert. From the upper 
deck to the main one is a lift especially 
built for her Majesty and suite to reach 
their rooms without fatigue. 

The new Victoria and Atdert has, on 
the medallion at her stern, the motto, 
“ Heaven’s Light our Guide.” 

Altogether, this newest yacht is, without 
doubt, in every way the most beautiful, as 
it has been the most costly, of aU “ The 
Queen’s Conveyances.” 



VICKERY’S DEPLORABLE 
STRATAGEM. 

By OEME AGNUS.* 


lUmtrated by Bertha Newcomhe, 


^XJT a small village 
is ours. Count¬ 
ing in every 
small house in 
the wide boun¬ 
daries of the 
parish, we fall, I 
believe, a long 
way short of 
four figures; and, consequently, we 
enjoy tlie privilege of knowing all 
about each other’s affairs and personal 
characteristics, and also a pretty minute 
account of each other’s family liistory, which, 
when it is one’s own family, is sometimes 
provoking. Life in the village or hamlet is 
an open book. Gossip about each other has 
to fill the place of the concerts, tlieatres, 
music-halls, and other social amusements of 
townsfolk ; and the townsman cannot under¬ 
stand how absorbingly interesting the most 
trivial details of personal gossip can be, and 
would very likely laugh if he were told that 
the sudden (natural) death of Widow Ellem’s 
sow gave, on an average, at least thirty 
minutes of gossip and speculation to every 
adult person in our community. 

The fierce light that beats upon a throne 
is a milder ray than that which plays about 
the head of a villager. His lightest word, 
his childish escapades, his youthful follies are 
well remembered ; and he who returns to his 
native village expectant of homage because 
he has gone out and climbed some way up 
the hill of prosperity has the crimson 
brought to his cheek by the ghost of his past 
being conjured up to his vision. When all 
this is borne in mind it will not seem sur¬ 
prising that I, in common with my neigh¬ 
bours, knew of the passion of our Guardian 
of the Peace (Police Constable Yickery, 
Dorset Constabulary) for Mrs. Luman, the 
doctor’s housekeeper, nor that I am able to 
give all the details of the romantic episode. 


* Copyright, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co , in the 
United States of America. 


P.C. Yickery, when I first knew him, was 
a liale and hearty man of forty-five at the 
least, who needed a belt that would have 
been several sizes too large for any other 
constable in tlie county. Mrs. Luman also, 
whose hair had begun to lose its colour, was 
rather too plump for placid breathing. She 
confessed to forty summers and winters in 
moments of confidence, but tlie shrewd ladies 
of the village added ten to the forty, and 
even then declared that they were erring on 
the side of mercy. 

“ AYhy,” said one, “ Zarey was thirty and 
over when she did come here, and that be 
twenty-one year agone. Don’t tell 1 about 
vorty; vivty-dree be her age iv it be a 
day.” 

Mrs. Luman, when she came to take 
charge of the doctor’s establishment, was a 
widow ; and, from the manner in wliich she 
spoke of the dual state, it was understood 
that her marriage had not been a success. 
She- was a stout, placid, good-tempered 
woman, with tolerant opinions on every sub¬ 
ject under the sun save that of husbands. 
This was the subject that roused her slum¬ 
bering temper. With a shrill volubility, by 
turns ironical, vituperative, and interrogatory, 
but always caustic and altogether overstep¬ 
ping the bounds of parliamentary language, 
she belaboured the unhappy race and would 
allow them no single shred of virtue. 

‘‘ Don’t talk to I ’bout the men-volks,” was 
her summing up ; “ there bain’t one of ’em 
worth picken up as a husband. Pve done 
with ’em. If ever you do zee Sarah Luman 
tied to another man, you can put she down 
as gone saft-headed.” 

Yet, in spite of Mrs. Luman’s resolve, so 
often expressed and in such grapliical lan¬ 
guage, Solomon Yickery lost his heart to her. 
It became his liabit to drop into tlie doctor’s 
kitchen, ‘‘to pass the time of day with Mrs. 
Luman,” whenever duty or pleasure took 
him in that direction, which has been as 
often as nine times a week. Mr. Yickery 
came to our village eleven years ago, anil 


63 



64 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


from the first he saw in Mrs. Immaii tlie one 
desirable woman in the world. He had 
never thought of marriage, he often said, 
until he had seen lier. 

At first his visits to the doctor’s premises 
were purely on matters of business. “ You 
zee, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Luman, ‘‘the 
parson’s and Dr. Fall’s here do stand iser- 
lated—as the prapper word to express it be ; 
and as tliey be the gurtest (largest) houses 
in this parish, it be iny dooty to zee to ’em.” 
Of course Mrs. Luman asked him into the 
kitchen, giving liim a glass of beer and a 
little hot supper now and then ; for, though 
she had such a poor opinion of them, she 
delighted “ in tellen the men-volks to their 
vaces what pore creaturs they be, and how 
she had tried one, which was one too many.” 

Constable Yickery, never having played 
the gallant, was rather bashfnl, and it was 
quite a year before he summoned np courage 
to propose. It was a glass of old and heady 
port that braced his nerves on that momentous 
occasion. “ It strikes I, ma’am,” he said, 
looking criticcdly at the port with one eye 
closed, “that you got hold of a poreish 
specimen of a man, that first ventur’ of 
yours. Now, I warrant ’ee, ma’am, if you’d 
make another start in double harness, as 
you’d find married life a lot more wholesome 
than you think vor. It be the ordained 
state for man and woman,” went on Mr. 
Yickery solemidy, in the greatest oratorical 
effort of his life, “ and it bain’t for a Chris¬ 
tian to sneer at it. Try a prapper zort of a 
man, and you’ll not regret it, I warrant ’ee.” 

Mrs. Luman was intensely amused, or at 
least seemed so. “ Oh, Lor’! ” she cried, 
and broke into such a fit of laughter 
that poor Yickery was very uncomfortable. 
“ Try a prapper zort of a man, did ’ee zay, 
Yickery ? ” she asked, when she was a little 
more composed. “ Where shall I find thik 
(that) zort, may I ask ’ee ? ” 

It was Mr. Yickery’s supreme chance, and 
to the credit of bis manhood and the old 
port he rose to tlie occasion. “ Well, Zarey,” 
he said in tender and modest accents, “ iv 
you’ll take I, Fil try to make ’ee a virst- 
class husband. I bain’t perfect; I have my 
little vailens, there bain’t any doubt ; but 
everybody will allow I be a good-tempered, 
easy zort ov man.” 

Mrs. Luman raised and dropped her hands 
three times, as if in the extremity of amaze¬ 
ment. “ Take you, Zol Yickery ? ” she 
asked, with cruel deliberation. “ You think 
you be the prapper zort ov man, do ’ee ? 
You do think I had a poreish specimen of a 


man ? A^^liy, you bain’t vit to be named the 
same day with Peter Luman. And if I 
couldn’t stand he, how do ’ee think I could 
stand you."''' 

Poor Yickery was so abashed that he rose 
up, put on his helmet, and murmured that 
he Avould be going. 

“ Oh ! no, you bain’t,” said Mrs. Luman, 
standing Avith her back against the door. 
“ You have had your zay, Zolomon, and it 
be time I got in a Avord, I ’Ioav. Do ’ee 
mean to zay that after hearen my opinions 
on husbands you had the impidence to come 
here tryen to court I ? ” 

Mr. Yickery AA^as silent. 

“AnsAver, ^vill ’ee ? ” demanded Mrs. 
Luman, who was enjoying the situation 
immensely. 

“ Iv I did, Zarey, I can’t zee it be any 
harm,” replied Mr. Yickery doggedly. “ It 
do show that I respected ’ee above all other 
women. You zee,” continued tlie constable, 
Avith a stroke of genius, “ I did never think 
nothen of Avomen nohow. I did think a 
Avife be a plague to a man till I zee you. 
Zays I, “No Avife for Zol, thank ’ee all the 
zame.” 

“ And zo you did come here a-tryen to 
court I. A pretty slight to put on a Avoman 
who has my vieAvs, bain’t it! Do ’ee think 
you be the zort of a man to make a Avomaii 
go back on her aa^oixI ? ” 

“ I—I love ’ee, do ’ee zee.” 

“ Love ? Farden candles ! You came 
here not caren one atom about my repytation. 
A vine tale to get round, that I luiA^e men- 
volks courten I ! ” 

It had taken Mr. Yickery some Aveeks to 
gather together sufficient courage to propose, 
but he felt he never Avould have had enough 
had he guessed how unpleasant it AA^ould be. 
His sole desire now Avas to get aAvay. 

“I be very zorry,” he said, making a step 
nearer the door. “ I’ll be gvA^ain noAv. I’ll 
not come again.” 

“ There, if that bain’t just like Peter Avas ! 
He’d liaA^e his zay like all the men, and then 
Avould never listen to a Avord, as if a pore 
Avoman’s tongue Avas only an ornament. 
You bain’t gwain till I have done with ’ee. 
Wlio put you up to this ? ” 

“ Nobody.” 

“ Be you sure ? Haven’t ’ee been tellen 
everybody that you be a-courten up at the 
doctor’s ? ” 

“ I never zaid nothen to nobody.” 

“ And a lucky thing vor ’ee, I ’Ioav. It be 
bad enough tryen to make a vooil of I, 
Avithout tellen everybody. Now look here,” 


VICKERY'S DEPLORABLE STRATAGEM. 


65 



“Jt was a glass of old and heady port that braced his iier\"es 
on that momentous occasion.” 


added j\rrs. Lnnian, who was very unwilling 
to lose Mr. Vickery’s visits, “ you’ll come 
here jnst as avore, or volks will be zayen 
that we have had a lovers’ tiff, or zome snch 
nonsense ” (with a snort)—‘‘you’ll come the 
zame as avore, mind ’ee. Iffit don’t ’ee ever 
think I shall change my mind. T tell ’ee 
agen that I’ve tried one man, and it he like 
taken a monthfnl of a bad egg—yon don't 
want another. When Peter came a-conrten 
T, he was that nice and sweet that yon’d have 
zaid he was too good to live long—the 
deceiven wretch ! He tnrned ont the biggest 
scamp that ever swore to love and cherish a 
woman, and I didn’ shed dree tears when he 
was drownded. And now yon may go, and 
yon’ll look in the zame as usual; and if yon 
vallies your peace of mind, yon’ll tell nobody 
as you made a vooil of yourself, and tried to 
make one of I. Good-night, ]\Ir. Vickery. 
It do look like rain, don’t it ? ” 

Mr. Vickery, without a word, went ont into 
the chilly night, and walked nearly two miles 
before he relieved his feelings by a very 


improper word. For months he had been 
dreaming delicious dreams, and this Avas the 
reality. “ Drat the Avoman ! ” he muttered. 

The poor, rejected lover had been straitly 
commanded to keep the affair to himself, but 
it AA^as not because Mrs. Lnman Avished it 
kept secret. In fact, she intended the Avhole 
village to knoAv; but she Avanted to tell the 
neAvs herself, that it might be shaped to her 
liking. Unfortunately, it AAas betAA-een nine 
and ten, and as three-fourths of the village 
Avould have retired, she could not confide in 
anyone that night ; but as early as possible 
the next morning she ran doAvn to the post- 
office. Onr post-office is kept by Mrs. 
Widge, who performs her duty on behalf of 
Her Majesty at one counter, and sells 
groceries at the other. She also deals very 
extensiA^ely in neAvs and gossip. For local 
affairs she is more reliable than a local paper. 
She has the true journalistic instinct, for she 
has been accused of mauipnlating iieAA^s with 
a view to rendering it more “ spicy,” and 




THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


60 


even of manufacturing it in times of 
dearth. 

“ Gool-marnen, Betty,” said Mrs. Luman. 
‘‘ Let 1 have six stamps.” 

How be ’ee, Zarey ? ” 

“ How be I ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

“ Whatever be amusen you, Zarey ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, it will kill I ! If I tells you, 
you will keep it to yourself, Betty ? ” 

“ You know I never be one for gossipen 
about other volks,” said Mrs. Widge rather 
severely. “ It’ll be zafc with I. Come in 
the house and sit down vor a minute.” 

“ I mustn’t stay,” said Mrs. Luman, but 
went in, nevertheless. “ Oh, dear, Betty, I 
bo quite zore,” rubbing her sides gently. 


“ Do ’ee zee, Betty, Vickery have been comen 
pretty often to zee as things be locked up 
and all right generally. At times I’ve given 
him a glass and told him what I thinks ov 
husbands. Well, last night ”—Mrs. Luman 
interrupted her narrative to indulge in a one- 
minute peal of laughter—“ he got zo bold as 
to propose to I.” 

‘‘ Never ! ” said Mrs. Widge, much 
shocked. 

“ You may well be surprised. He did ask 
I to marry him. Zaid I be the very woman 
vor him, and all thik nonsense. Didn’ I let 
him have it, just about! ‘I’ve tried one 
man ; I bain’t tryen another,’ I told him. 
The pore man wished he could sink through 



“ ‘ He got zo bold as to propose to T.’ 

‘ Never! ’ said iMrs. AVidge, much shocked,” 




VICKERY^S DEPLORABLE STRAPAGEiM. 


67 


the vloor avore I‘d done. You would have 
laughed. Ha ! ha ! ” 

“Of all I ever heard, Zarey ! ” 

“ It be true. He be in love with I, he 
did zay. Oh, dear, it be killen I ! But 
you’ll not zay a word, mind. It would serve 
him right to let everybody know, but I’ll 
have mercy on him. Good-marnen.” 

On her way back Mrs. Lnman halted to 
confide the secret to two other gossips. It 
was quite unnecessary, for Mrs. Widge did 
her duty admii’ably. ' Before her shop closed 
she had repeated the story eleven times ; and 
so familiar had it become that she was able 
to add sevei’al picturesque details of her own. 

Poor Vickery! What he had had to 
endure from tlie loved one was nothing to 
the facetious condolences and mock sympathy 
he met with from every side. How the 
story had got aljout he could not imagine, 
and he trembled at every knock at the door 
lest it was Mrs. Luman come to call him to 
account. 

For some months lie did not go near the 
doctor’s ; but gradually the fires of love, that 
had only been deadened, not extinguished, 
burst into flame again, and sheepishly he 
ventured near the widow once more.- To his 
grateful astonishment she did not refer to 
the matter. “ Haven’t zeen ’ee about lately, 
Zolomon,” she said. “ Won’t’ee step in and 
have a glass ? ” 

Vickery did step in, and in a few minutes 
was ([uite at home again. He resumed his 
daily calls, and listened patiently to the 
housekeeper’s diatribes on the sorry race of 
creatures called husbands. 

Solomon Vickery’s love was not an ephe¬ 
meral passion, to be killed by one blow. As 
time went on his courage returned, and at 
last he ventured to put the aU-important 
question again. 

“ I thought,” said Mrs. Luman fiercely, 
“ that you had got out of thik nonsense, 
Vickery. I tell ’ee, once vor all, I’ve tried 
one man, and when I try another I shall be 
that minute vit vor the ’sylum. I be very 
comfortable here ; do ’ee think I be a born 
vooil, to leave it for the best man as ever 
stepped—if there be any best among ’em ? ” 

“ Look ’ee here,” responded Vickery, with 
admirable firmness, “I be gwain to try and 
try agen, and zo I tell ’ee. Becos one man 
be no good, it bain’t vair to think all 
the rest of we be the zame.” With that 
declaration he put on his helmet and stalked 
out. 

Mrs. Luman followed him to the door to 


have the last word. “ Very well, Zol Vickery, 
if you want to spend all your days tryen to 
grab the moon, well and good ; but it bain’t 
the sort of thing volks have a right to expect 
vrom a man your age, and one that wears * 
Queen Victorey’s uniform.” 

For a matter of seven years or so the con¬ 
stable laid siege to the strong-minded widow’s 
heart, but in vain. Regularly once a month 
he proposed. He used all the arguments he 
could think of. “ You be getten wold, 
Zarey,” he said once, “ and the doctor won’t 
live for ever. What will you do if anythen 
happens to he ? You’ll have to look out for 
a fresh place, and p’r’aps not get taken. And 
it struck I the other day,” added the con¬ 
stable, with a deplorable disregard for the 
truth, “ that the doctor be agein’ vast.” 

“ Rubbish,” said Mrs. Luman contemp¬ 
tuously; “the doctor will outlive you, I 
’low! ” 

All the village knew of Vickery’s hopeless 
passion. The doctor, when he met him, 
would rally him about it, and ask if she were 
relenting. 

“Not yet,” Vickery would answer stoutly. 

“ But I bain’t gwain to be conquered by no 
woman.” 

“ Well done, Vickery. I admire your 
courage. When the wedding comes off I’ll 
make you a handsome present.” 

^ 

It is now two or three winters back, when 
Vickery’s siege had endured over seven years, 
that there came a crisis in the history of this 
doleful love affair. Our quiet district that 
winter was disturbed and excited by news of 
daring burglaries. Elmwood Hall, at Verden, 
only ten miles from us, was broken into one 
Sunday night when the family were at church, 
and Lady Elmwood’s jewels stolen. A fort¬ 
night later another successful Imrglary was ^ 
carried out at Sir William Frayle’s place. The ' 
Grange ; and the footman who heard the 
noise, and gave chase to the thieves, was shot 
in the side and dangerously wounded. The 
Grange is only four miles away, and timid 
souls grew nervous as the hours of night 
came on. “You never know nowadays,” 
said Mrs. Widge, “ whether you won’t get up 
murdered.” 

Constable Vickery walked our roads in ' 
those eventful days with an added import¬ 
ance, which is saying much, for when on duty 
he never forgot the dignity of his office. His 
manner seemed to say, “ Good people, do not 
alarm yourselves. Am not I on duty ? ” 

Some of the women took heart from his 
confident bearing. “ I’ll tell ’ee what,” said 


68 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


one, “ tliere bain’t any robbers tomfools 
enough to vcntur’ where Vickery be. AVe 
can sleep quiet.” 

By a coincidence, which Air. A^ickery came 
to look upon as providential, the doctor was 
called to Dublin to see his brother, who was 
on the point of death; and Er, Sibley, of 
Roley, the nearest village, was performing 
his duties. The evening after the burglary at 
The Grange, Mr. Vickery found Miv. Luman 
more agitated than he had ever seen her 
before, and she soundly rated him for his 
cheerful countenance. “ How dare ’ee look 
so unconcerned,” she cried, “ when we be in 
danger of bein’ found murdered ! ” 

‘‘ There be no danger,” he said soothingly. 

“ No burglars will come here, I ’low.” 

“ Ugh ! hoAV do ’ee know that ? How 
would ’ee like to sleep alone in this house, 
and they villains about ? ” 

Mr. Vickery looked at her with curious 
interest. “ Zarey, you baiii’b avraid of 
burglars, be ’ee ? ” 

“ Yes, I be,” she snapped. “ They do get 
on my nerves. Ugh ! ” and she shivered. 

Suddenly an idea struck the constable, 
and by hypocritical expressions of sympathy 
he extracted from her the confession that, in 
spite of her strong mind, she was addicted 
to the truly feminine practice of looking 
under the bed and in the cupboards before 
retiring, to assure herself that none of the 
hideous tribe were lurking tliere. 

‘‘ Sleep in peace,” said the constable, as he 
bade her good - night. ‘‘ I’ll keep a 
look-out.” 

“ Mind you do,” said Airs. Luman rather 
irritably. 

Air. Vickery resumed his beat in a highly 
elated frame of mind. By chance he had 
discovered that excellent woman’s one weak¬ 
ness, and as he paced the lanes he was 
considering how he could take full advantage 
of it. He chuckled repeatedly. 

The next day he was seen talking for a 
long time with Tom Fry, the baker’s harum- 
scarum son, doubtless warning him about 
some of his evil practices. 

That evening he went to see Mrs. Luman 
with a very grave face, and it was only after 
pressing him repeatedly that she got him to 
unburden himself. “ AVell, Zarey,” he said, 
“ I never thought to have zeen it in this 
parish, but they burglars be about. I 
zeen dree ov ’em last night. I chased ’em, 
but they were too quick vor I.” 

This untruthful tale had the effect 
intended. She never could stay in the 


house all night by herself, Airs. Luman 
declared again and again. Vickery laughed 
at her. “A woman as can do without a 
husband,” he said, as he was going, ‘‘shouldn’t 
be avraid ov thieves.” 

She begged and prayed him to keep his eye 
on the house all night ; and the constable, 
after being treated to a hot supper and “ a 
drap or two of wine to warm him,” departed, 
vowing he Avould keep his eye on the house 
all night. 

Soon after midnight Airs. Luman was 
awakened by the noise of broken glass. She 
sat up, trembling with apprehension. Her 
agitation increased when she beard loud 
noises from the kitchen. There was no 
doubt about it—a gang of burglars were in 
the kitchen. She dared not scream, but 
covered her head with the bedclothes in a 
vain endeavour to shut out the awful sounds. 
Her one hope was that the miscreants would 
confine themselves to tlie kitchen. 

But, alas ! presently the kitchen door was 
opened, and with a loud clatter they began 
to mount the stairs. She would not be 
murdered in her bed without one cry for 
help, and, springing up, she opened the 
wincloAV and gave a terrified scream of 
“ Alurdei ! ” 

Constable A^ickery came running up the 
next instant. “ Zarey, what be wrong ? ” he 
cried. 

“ Oh, Zol,” she gasped, “ thieves—they be 
come—to murder 1. Help ! ” and she sank 
down, nearer fainting than she had ever been 
in her life. 

“ Don’t 'ee fear, Zarey. I’ll soon have 
’em out,” and Air. Vickery got in by the 
window, and presently with a whoop was 
chasing the thief down the drive. 

Out in the road the thief stopped until the 
constable reached him. 

“AAYll done, Tom,” said AHckery, nigh 
choking with laughter: “ here be the 
sovereign. But mum’s the word, mind. 
Go straight hwome.” 

Air. Vickery returned to the house. 
“ Zarey,” he called softly. 

“ Oh, Zol,” she said, peeping out, “ where 
—where be they ? ” 

“ They be gone. Dress yourself and come 
down, and I’il tell ’ee about it. I be comen 
in to zee what they have done.” 

Air. Vickery, carrying a candle, met the 
trembling damsel at the foot of the stairs 
and escorted her to the kitchen. “ Come on, 
Zarey,” he said tenderly, “ they be gone. 
Poor woman ! what a fright you have had.” 
He put his arm round her waist without 


VICKERY'S JJEPLORA RLS STRA TAG EM. 


O'.i 



•‘*/nrov,’ ho said, ‘you will havo to uiarry 1.’” 


resistance. Slie looked round the disordered 
kitclien, sank into a cliair, and bni*st into tears. 

‘‘Oil, Zol,” she sohhed, “but for you they 
would have inni’dered I. How many wei’e 
there ? ” 


“ Dree or vonr,” replied the constable 
without a blush. “ I come in by the windy, 
do ’ee zee, and met ’em as they be tryeii to 
rim out. I thou_i«:ht T was done vor. They 
tripped I u]p and I veil, or I should have 



70 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


nabbod one ov ’em. I was up in a jiffy and 
a fter ’em ; but the scoundrels were too quick 
Yor me, and got away, and I came back to 
zee you.” 

“ Thank ’ee, thank ’ee. Tliey’d have 
murdered I,” and she sobbed again. 

The constable felt it was a decisive moment. 

“ Zarey,” he said, taking her tenderly in 
his arms, but speaking firmly, “you will have 
to marry I. You must have a man to take 
care ov ’ee after this. If I’d taken offence, 
and not been near you, you’d have been 
murdered at this very minit. You’ll marry 
me, Zarey ? ” 

“ I—don’t—know.” 

“ lint you must make up your mind. If 
you’ll marry I, there will be no more of this 
work. Zay you will, my dear.” 

The horrors of the last half-hour came 
thick on her mind and overwhelmed her. 
“ Well, I will, Zol; but I never thought-” 

He stopped her with a kiss. “ I’ll make ’ee 
the best of husbands. Tliis day month we’ll 
be married. Where do ’ee keep the brandy ? 
You need a drap, and I could do with a mouth¬ 
ful, vor I never expected to be alive after 
tusslen with they villains.” 

He sat with her till the dawn appeared, and 
then went home well content. 

If only Tom Fry would keep his mouth 
shut all would be well; and he saw that 
young gentleman, and, after giving him an 
extra ten shillings, impressed upon him the 
fact that he had committed a felony, and if 
he blabbed would assuredly fall into the 
clutches of the law. 

“ It won’t help ’ee to zay I told ’ee. I 
might get dismissed, but it would be vive 
years’ penal vor you, my boy.” 

Tom was greatly impressed, and promised 
to be as secret as the grave. 

The burglary, Mrs. Luman’s peril, and 
Vickery’s bravery roused the excitement of 
the village to fever heat, and the story 
received many dramatic ornaments in passing 
from lip to lip. Vickery’s terrific fight with 
the fifteen ruffians gave rise to much hero- 
worship ; and when, the following Sunday, 
the banns were published for the first time, 
nobody laughed—it was only right that Sol 
should be rewarded “ that way, if he were zo 
minded,” and both he and Sarah were con¬ 
gratulated on the romantic sequel to the night 
of horror. The doctor gave away the bride 
and provided the wedding-feast, at which he 
made a speech extoUing the domestic virtues of 
the bride and the bravery and perseverance 
of the bridegroom. 

* * * 


Six months passed, and Mr. Vickery found 
married life all that he had pictured it. But, 
alas I young Mr. Fry, who was quite reckless 
when he had had a few glasses of beer, hinted 
one night that he knew a thing or two about 
“that there burglary,” and on being plied 
with liquor told the whole story. 

It was so remarkable that at first the 
listeners refused to believe it, but when Tom 
had been minutely cross-examined, and had 
told all that Vickery had said to him, wild 
hilarity was enthroned among them. Our 
village kept uncommonly late hours that 
night, for the goodman had to tell his wife, 
and when she had enjoyed it there was calling 
in on neighbours that they might share in the 
good things. Mrs. Hoiley and Mrs. James, 
who had not been on speaking terms for three 
months, were reconciled on that historic night, 
for Mrs. James looked in at Hoiley’s and said, 
“You haven’t heard the news, I s’pose ? ” 
and stepped in and told it. Enmity could 
not flourish in such a sea of mirth, and Mrs. 
James stayed to share a second supper. There 
w^is one common wish in the village : every¬ 
body would have given fabulous amounts to 
be present at the interview between husband 
and wife “ Avhen Zarey knowed.” 

It was jMrs. Widge who, the next morning, 
“ let Zarey know.” She had borrowed Mrs. 
Vickery’s smoothing-iron, and she returned 
it lierself. She almost ran, lest anyone should 
be before her, but Providence was kind. 

“I’ve brought ’ee back thease iron, and 
thank ’ee, Zarey,” said Mrs. Widge, sinking 
down exhausted in the first chair. 

“ Oh, thank ’ee ; but I bain’t in no hurry 
vor it. You be out ov breath, Betty.” 

“ Ees, just a little. Zims closish to I thease 
marnen.” 

“ I didn’ vind it myself,” said Mrs. Vickery. 

Mrs. Widge expressed herself sapiently and 
at some length on the weather, on the post- 
office work, and on the letter she had had 
from her sister. It was not until she got up 
to go that slie said, with a little laugh, “How 
do Vickery suit ’ee now, Zarey ? ” 

“ Oh, lie be all i*ight,” said Mrs. Vickery 
with decision. “ He do know his place, do 
’ee zee.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! he be a cunnen old vox, to 
play with ’ee like he did, vor all that! Don’t 
’ee think zo now, honest, Zarey ? ” 

“ Play with I ? ” gasped Mrs. Vickery in 
perplexity. “ How do ’ee mean ? ” 

“ Now don’t ’ee go vor to pretend, Zarey ; 
young Tom Vry have let it out at last. I ’low 
I didn’ think Vickery could be so cunnen. 
We couldn’ help but laugh when we knowed.” 



VICKERY'S DEPLORABLE STRATAGEM. 


71 



“Tom Vrv ? Wliat do To moan ? I know 
iiotlieii about Tom Vry.” 

“ Why, Zarey, you don’t mean to say 
Vickery played "that trick on ’ee and never 
told ’ee afterwards ? We thought as you 
knowed.” 

jVrs. Vickery went and shut the door, 
motioned her friend to a chair, and taking 
another herself said, “ Now you’ll tell I what 
you be driven at.” 

Mrs. Widge was nothing loth. She enjoyed 
the recital amazingly, but Mrs. Vickery did 
not see the humour of it. “ Thank ’ee, Betty,” 
she said at last. “Now, iv you be a true vriend 
to I, you’ll tell everybody as I knowed all 
along.” 


“ Cert’inly I will, Zarey. Ov course it be 
only as a true vriend would. Well, well, Zol 
cert’iiily have been a perseveren sweetheart.” 
And laughter had her in its grip again. 

Mrs. AVidge, with a due sense of what Avas 
expected of her, faithfully repeated the whole 
coiiA^ersatioii as well as slie could remember it. 

Mrs. A^ickery went upstairs, threw her 
apron over her head, and wept at intervals 
for nearly half an hour. Poor Vickery, all 
unconscious that the plot had been revealed, 
came home punctually at Bvelve, filled Avith 
pleasurable anticipations. He had purchased 
a duck earlier in the Aveek, and they were 
to dine on it that day, and his mind fondly 









THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


dwelt on that tender bird, and the carrots 
and turnips, baked potatoes, and excellent 
home-brewed that were to accompany it. 

He entered the room in his shirt-sleeves. 
“ Well, my dear, be the duck ready ? ” he said 
cheerfully, and seated himself at the table. 

Zarey did not answer, but busied herself 
with taking up the dinner. Yickery carefully 
whetted the carver, and as Zarey placed the 
bird on the table he said, “ My goodness ! but 
it do zmell relishable. Put it over here, my 
dear, and let I carve it.” 

Zarey took up the dish and threw the ])ird 
into the coal-scuttle, where it was quickly 
followed by tlie vegetables. 

“ Zarey," my dear ! ” gasped Yickery in 
horror, “ whatever be ’ee cloen ? Zarey, Avhat 
be the matter ? ” 

“ W\vdt be the matter ? Tom Yry be the 
matter ! Maken vun ov a pore woman be 
the matter! Breaking tlie laws be the 
matter ! Marryen a husband as’ll vind his- 
self in gaol for iiouse-breaken be the matter ! 
Maken I the common laughen-stock be the 
matter ! Been deceived into marryen a cun- 
nen fat old wretcli that only tliinks ov eaten 
and drinken l)e the matter ! Iv you can 
waste thirty shillens in deceiven, I can waste 
a dinner, I ’low. Any mwore ? ” 

Yicdvery sat for a minute in helplessness ; 
then he "said witli genuine fervour, “ Hang 
young Tom Yry I Pll vry en brown to¬ 
morrow.” 

‘‘ It baiirt Tom Yry, it be Zol Yickery as 
put en u]) to it.” Zarey’s voice was reaching 
the shrill tones tliat are closely allied to tears. 

“ Zarey, don’t ’ee take on, my dear, don’t 


’ee, now. I did it because I wanted ’ee, do 
’ee zee. It was the only way to get ’ee as 1 
could zee. Let we be peaceable now, do ’ee. 
Iv volks zee you be put out, they’ll laugh at 
we, just about. Come now, make it up, 
do ’ee.” 

But ]\Irs. Yickery was not to be appeased. 
Although unconscious of it, that day Avas 
Yickery’s AVatcrloo. At one swoop the reins 
passed from his lingers ; licrcafter he was 
second in his own home. Out of doors he 
was armed witli all the terrors of the lav- ; in¬ 
doors the suggestive took the })lace of the 
imperative mood, and at times even that Avas 
snubbed. He rarely speaks up for himself, 
it is whispered, though on one occasion he 
did retort that if he had known what she Avas 
going to be he Avould have “ zeen hisself 
A'urder before he had made any efforts to Avin 
her.” 

“ Ah, my man,” rejoined the good lady 
triumphantly, “ but you didn’ know. I’ll 
teach ’ee to make I tiie laughen-stock avoi'e 
I’a’c done Avith ’ee.” 

Perhaps the hardest thing the constable lias 
to bear is his wife’s iieAv-born dislike to the 
smell of tobacco, and the poor man has to 
smoke surreptitiously. j\Irs. Yickery, it is 
said, goes over his pockets at night and im¬ 
pounds any pipes or Aveed she may lind. 

Sarah Yickery is certainly a Avoman Avho 
looks Avell to the Avays of her household. 
Yickery is taken good care of, and the house 
is a model of comfort and cleanliness, but the 
correct style of address of the Avorthy couple 
is emphatically “ Mrs. and Mr. Yickery,” with 
the accent on the first. 











IF. 


Ill assail me if I fail thee, 

Sliouldst thou call to me in vain, 
Should mine eyes mistake their lodestar. 
Or my homage find its wane. 

Dole attend me if I send thee 
E’en one hour’s cark or care. 

Should dark trouble’s brood o’ertake thee. 
Grief draw near and 1 not there. 


Woe await me if T treat thee 
E’er less fondly hence than now, 
Should my touch bring tribulation. 
Strike the sunshine from thy brow. 

Blight o’erwhelm me, sorrow helm me. 
If to stranger-shrines my glance 
E’er slionld wander, thine forgetting. 

Be my days one long mischance. 

Coi^STANCE Sutcliffe. 









AN ORGANIST AND HIS ART; 



Photo hyl 


By F. Klickmann 


SIR FREDERICK BRIDGE AT 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 


T he most popular of IjOikIoii musicians 
is undoubtedly Sir Frederick Bridge. 
He lias attained this distinction 
through the sheer force of his personality, 
for there never was a man less given to self- 
advertisement, or more callously and persis¬ 
tently deaf to the importunities of editors, 
interviewers, and the whole army of Society 
paragraphists. Kot that he is unapproach¬ 
able" under ordinary circumstances — quite 
the reverse ; he is one of the kindest hearted 
of men in a profession where petty jealousies 
and magnanimous generosities jostle one 
another in a curious manner. Sir Frederick’s 
tendency to help “lame dogs over stiles” 
whenever he meets them must add consider¬ 
ably to tlie wear and tear of his life’s work, 
I fancy. 

A man has to pay a certain penalty when 
he is gifted with a perfect genius for winning 
the admiration of the public ; and Sir 
Frederick Bridge must realise this when he 
attacks his daily budget of letters. The 
position he occupies in the musical world 
brings him into touch with an immense 
audience, inasmuch as he holds not merely 
one important post, but many. As the 
organist of Westminster Abbey his name is 


familiar, not only to liondonei’s, but to the 
whole of the civilised world ; our iVbbey, 
with its grand musical service and its organ 
that stands without a rival anywhere, is a 
centre towards which all tourists gravitate at 
least once in their lifetime. It is the very 
first place into which our American cousins 
precipitate themselves, after landing in 
breathless haste and taking some hurried 
refreshment on our foggy shores ; and one 
of the most haunting memories that Colonials 
carry with them to the great plains and 
mountains “ out beyond ” is the recollection 
of that grey old pile, where organ and choir 
intermingle their voices and make one vast 
sea of sound. 

It often, happens that visitors who have 
travelled some tens of thousands of miles— 
more or less—to see the Abbey and hear the 
music, are anything but satisfied with tlie 
indistinct silhouette, above the choir-screen, 
that is pointed out to them as no less im¬ 
portant a personage than the famous organist 
himself. True, those with extra long sight 
will sometimes aver that the figure wears 
glasses (though such a statement always 
inclines one to suspect a previous acquaint¬ 
ance with Sir Frederick’s photographs !) ; 









SIR FREDERICK BRIDGE. 


lb 


blit, apart from tliis, one can actually see 
very^ little of the musician himself, beyond 
a misty halo (according to the position of 
the sun), which one admits is a very ajipro- 
priate background under the circumstances. 

English people are, as a rule, quite willing 
to accept the halo and go on their way re¬ 
joicing, but not so our transatlantic relatives. 

“Now, I just guess T haven’t come three 
thousand miles (and three tliousand back, 
that’ll make six 

thousand) to ^ - 

see this dear 
Abbey and the 
lovely graves of 
Longfellow, 
and Tennyson, 
and Handel, 
and the rest, 
and hear all 
those ’cute 
little boys sing, 
without getting 
a bigger sight 
of Sir I3ridge 
than that little 
speck up there. 

Why, he might 
just as well be 
McKinley for 
all I can tell! ” 

Thus si^ake 
a delightful 
Boston girl, 
wlio was kindly 
showing me 
around my own 
native city! I 
explained that 
“ Sir Bridge ” 
and the Presi¬ 
dent of the 
United States 
bore not the 
very sliglitest 
outward re¬ 
semblance to 
one another, 
tliough I had 
found them to be marvellously alilve in the 
matter of strong personality and unfailing 
courtesy, and in order to prove my statement 
I was unwise enough to lead her in the direc¬ 
tion of a certain door marked “ Private, no 
admittance,” in one of the byways of the 
Abbey, which I knew led to the organ-loft. 
Evidently many other persons knew this, too ; 
quite a small crowd of peoi3le were waiting 
about expectantly. I kept Miss Bostonia 


well in the background, knowing the irre- 
pressibility of her temperament. Presently 
the door opened, and a sedate young man 
emerged, with an absorbed, thouglitful 
air and a large roll of music. The 
small gathering looked admiringly upon him, 
fell back to maJ^e way for him, and then 
followed, eagerly, hot at a respectful distance. 
“ There he is,” said my companion excitedly, 
preparing to make a lieadlong rush for him. 

He was a pleas- 
ing looking 
youth, and pos¬ 
sibly might not 
have been 
averse to being 
shaken hands 
with on behalf 
of all the maid¬ 
ens in Massa¬ 
chusetts. But 
I detained her 
—much against 
her will, I ad¬ 
mit. I t was 
useless for me 
to ex})lain that 
that was not 
“Sir Bridge”; 
she merely re¬ 
torted, “ Then, 
if he isn’t, why 
a r e all the 
peoi)le follow¬ 
ing him?” 
AYhich \vas an 
unanswerable 
piece of logical 
deduction, and 
I didn’t care 
to betray the 
secrets of my 
country so far 
as to explain to 
her that I en¬ 
ter hiined cer¬ 
tain suspicions 
that the affair 
was notliing 
more than a little ruse. AVhen the crowd 
had been thus decoyed away, the door again 
opened, and a tall figure appeared, carrying 
a square cap and peering slightly to right 
and left through his glasses. Then he 
made his way towards the cloisters, uncon¬ 
scious of the two figures loitering in the 
shadows. I let him get well out of reach 
before I said, “ That was Sir Frederick.” 
AA^ith wide-opened eyes she exclaimed, “ You 



CiOyyHght photo hy'\ \_nurnham, 421 , Brixton Hoad. 

Slli KRKDKUICK BIUlXiK, MUS. DOC. 





THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


don’t say! ” and then added, after an 
interval of silence, dniiiig which she had 
evidently grasped and digested the situation, 

“ Well, and if that isn’t just too cunning for 
anything ! ” 

But though Sir Frederick Bridge does his 
best to evade the pronounced attentions of 
the celebrity-hunter, he will put himself to 
actual trouble if he can be of real assistance 
to anyone. I can spare space to recall only 
one such incident, but this Avas very charac¬ 
teristic of the man himself. It Avas in tlie 
old days of the Gresham Musical Lectures, 
AA^hen they AA^ere held at Gresham College, 
in Basinghall Street, and not, as they ai’e 
noAV, in the roomy great hall of the City of 
London School. Tavo enthusiastic musical 
students had liurried to the lecture at a pace 
that argued more zeal than discretion. The 
hall AAaxs packed, although there Avas still 
half an hour to s})are. Yet they managed to 
edge a AAaiy in somehoAV ; and tlien it amis 
that tlie aiiiessness of the room, combined, 
perhaps, AA'ith the previous scamper across 
the City, resulted in a prosaic ‘‘ faint” ! The 
invalid Avas assisted doAvnstairs again into 
a cooler atmosphere, the only seat visible 
being a large carved arm-chair in the 
entrance-hall, evidently sacred to the use 
of an imposing-looking, gold-laced individual 
Avho stood beside it, representative of civic 
dignity and authority. The circumstances 
being briefly ex])lained, he graciously gave 
consent for the chair to be utilised. At that 
moment a door opened and Sir Frederick 
(tlien Dr.) Bridge crossed the vestibule. 
‘‘ Mr. Bumble ” saluted obsequiously, and as 
the Doctor tuiaied to acknowledge it lie 
caught sight of the forlorn couple, Avho Avere 
entire strangers to him. He stepped over to 
them and said, ‘‘ Rhyq you come to tlie 
lecture ? or are you Avaiting for somebody ? 
or-” 

“ The lady hain’t feeling Avell, sir,” 
interposed the magnificent official, jerking 
his cocked hat in the direction of the chair. 
“ ’Eat of the room,” he added by AA-ay of 
a lucid and exhaustive explanation. 

“ Then why in the AAmrld, man, didn’t you 
get some AA'ater ? ” And in a moment the 
Doctor had returned Avith a liberal supply. 
Having been thus restored, that student 
desired—with the energy that only belongs 
to one’s youth, alas !—to risk once more tlie 
carbonic acid gas in order to hear the 
lecture. But the audience by this time 
extended doAvn the staircase in a most hope¬ 
less manner. Dr. Bridge called an attendant, 
however, and told him to take the two up a 


private staircase, and give them seats in the 
front roAV, reserved for the City Fathers, 
remarking, “ Put them under an open 
windoAV and in a strong draught ! ” Then 
turning to them he said, “ And if either of 
yon contemplate another faint this evening, 
2)lease do not do so in the middle of one of 
my best speeches. I Avill make a convenient 
pause if I observe that you are getting pale. 
And Avlieii you are suffering from a stiff neck 
all next Aveek, I hope you Avill think kindly 
of me ! ” 

I ought to add, hoAvever, for the benefit 
of those AA’ho propose to attend future 
Gresham Lectures, that there is ample 
ventilation in the City of London School, 
also a handy supply of Avater outside, while 
the hall-porters noAV relieve Sir Frederick of 
the task of administration. 

The Gresham Lectures on Music bring 
Professor Bridge into touch Avitli a very 
different audience to the one he is accus¬ 
tomed to at the Abbey. At AVestminster it 
is the leisured sightseer Avho listens to him 
daily, whereas his lectures are croAvded Avith 
students and busy City men. The great 
secret of his success lies in his happy 
sense of humour and his overAvhelming 
enthusiasms. AYliatever subject lie has in 
hand, for the time being he clothes it Avith 
an importance tliat at once communicates 
itself to his audience. 

The first time I heard of the noAV long 
past Purcell Commemoration remains vividly 
in my mind. It Avas a Avretched, cold winter 
day. The Abbey looked lonely and mys¬ 
terious in the fog, and all the bare trees in 
Dean’s Yard Avere glistening in a coating of 
hoar-frost. I shivered as I walked along the 
cloisters to that portion of the Abbey knoAAUi 
as Littleton ToAA-er, Avhere Sir Frederick 
resides. But the gioAV from the big fire in 
the study gave a more optimistic colour to 
life. One forgot aU about the cold, looking 
out of the picturesque square AvindoAV on to 
the still more picturesque gables and quaint 
corners outside, and thinking hoAV delightful 
it must be to live in an abbey, and in 
AYestminster Abbey above all others. That 
study, by the AA^ay, has an unusually musical 
history. It aaus at one time occupied by 
the late Sir Joseph Barn by (AAdiom Sir 
Frederick Bridge also succeeded as conductor 
of the Royal Choral Society), and the tiles 
round the fireplace bear the initials J. B., 
AALich likeAvise serve for the present tenant. 
Sir Frederick’s first name being John. 

On the morning in question Sir Frederick 
Bridge aaus even more cheery than usual. 



SIR FREDERICK BRIDGE. 



Photo Ini'] J. Wvight. 

VIKW OF THE O HOAX-1-OFT AND CIIOI ll-SCRK FX FUO-M TllF- EAST EX I). 


‘‘Now J am going to sliow yon ;i I’cal 
treasure,” he said excitedly, after we liad 
been talking for a while. 

“ Oh ! ” laughed Lady Bridge, “ 1 know 
what it is, and T have heard it before, so I 
shall go ! ” 

But the Doctor persisted that it did not 
matter Itotr many times she had lieard it 
before, it would certainly bear hearing again. 


He then produced an old, faded, yellow, 
worn book of manuscript music, and tenderly 
opened it. 

“ What is it ? ” I asked. 

“ What is it ? Why, it is the original 
i\rS. of the Pni‘cell Te Deum that there has 
l)een so much controversy about; and here 
are all the corrections and annotations in 
PtircelCs oirn handirriiingy 






































78 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 



It was a most interesting relic. Every¬ 
thing was so clearly legilae. The whole 
work was in Piircell’s writing, and he had 
even written the names of the soloists who 
were to sing certain solos—names as long 
since dead as the hand that wrote them. 

The MS. had come into the Doctor’s pos¬ 
session quite by accident. A man whom he 


Photo by} 


A NEARER V'lEW OF THE ORGAN, SHOWING A PORTION OF THE NEW CASE. ERECTEI 
TO COMMEMORATE THE PURCELL BI-CENTENARY. 


did not know, brought it to him one day, and 
asked him if he cared to make an offer for it. 

“ After I had examined it, and saw what it 
really was, I told him that either his bones or 
the MS. would remain behind in the Abbey,” 
said the Doctor, ‘‘and he preferred the latter.” 

There was also a little song, just roughly 
scribbled on a spare blank leaf, the last in 
the book. Evidently Purcell had jotted it 


down hurriedly on the lirst scrap of paper he 
came across, meaning to deal with it later on. 
The words were written against the music. 

“ You see, T got two things for my money,” 
said Sir Freclerick, as he sat down to the piano, 
and played and sang the quaint little song. 

As I have already stated, Sir Fredeidck’s 
sense of humour is by no means the least of 
his saving graces. 
His conversation 
is often a running 
lire of witty mots 
and smart repartee. 
The very smallest 
event will serve 
him. Not long ago 
th e f olio win g n ot ice 
was fastened up in 
the Music Room at 
W e s t m i n s t e r 
Abbey. 

The Great and Swell 
occupants of the Organ 
Loft invite the Choir, 
if tliey can descend 
Solo(w), to a friendly 
^Manual and Pedal Ex¬ 
ercise, entitled Cricket. 
Every Player is re¬ 
quested to provide a 
Full Score, and it is 
hoped many runs will 
be executed, though no 
“great shakes” are ex¬ 
pected. All particulars 
to be settled at the re- 
hcarsal on Tuesday next 
at a quarter to Eleven. 

P.A—A Ball-Proof 
Cuirass will be pro¬ 
vided, and a doctor will 
attend. 

This brilliant 
musician can use 
his pen very effec¬ 
tively when he 
pleases, as his 
clever parody on 
“Bally in our 
Alley ” bears wit¬ 
ness, in which he 
sings the praises of 
his friend, Mr. 
Labouchere, M.P. 
and editor of Truth, 
and one of the several distinguished person¬ 
ages who reside within the xibbey precincts. 
“LABBY IN OUR ABBEY.” 

Of all the boys tliat are so smart 
There’s none like crafty Labby : 

He learns the secret of each heart. 

And lives near our Abbey. 

There is no lawyer in the land 
That’s half as sliarp as Labby ; 

He is a demon in the art. 

And guileless as a babby ! 


\T. J. Wrifjht. 



























Sni FREDERIGK IIRJDGE. 


7 !) 



< opi/rir//it photos In/'] [/{iirnham, Jtvixton Howl. 

COM)i:(rri\o at jiik queen’s Ji;iirEp:E seuvice. 


SIR FREDERICK BRIiXiE IN HIS DOCTOR'S 
ROBES. 

(*speoi{illy as I vras jiisl to 

enjoy myself. It is, of (course, a great 
satisfaction and pleasure to me to be 
present here, for oni* guest was con¬ 
nected with the Ah'hey. In my 
young days, before most of yon were 
born—at all events, before any of 
the ladies present were born—it" was 
the custom to call upon the most 
bashtnl, the best looking, and most 
shy young man to return thanks for 
the ladies. Xo violation of this rule 
has been ]KTmitted to-night. As the 
honoi'aiy secretary himself put it on 
these grounds, of course 1 could not 
refuse to reply. The new woman is 
to be ])aramonnt. iMnsically, we poor 
men are to be done away with. I 
hope tlicT will be as kind to ns as we 
are to them. Of course, I am not 
speaking from experience. Kindness 
to them! Why, just think what 
happens at examinations when there 
are lady and gentleman candidates. 

I have seen an iinfoidunate youth 
come to ])lay the violin for a diploma, 
and, entei’ing the I’oom, he proceeds 
to tune his instrument. * Can’t stop 


ForBalfour" in tlie week 
There seems to he no worse day 
Tlian is the one that comes between 
A Tuesday and a Thursday. 

For tlien we read eacli foul misdeed, 

“ Unmanly, mean and shabby,” 
Exposed to view in type so true 
By penetrating Labby. 

The ministers and members all 
jMake game of truthful Labby, 

Tliougii hut for him ’tis said they’d be 
A sleejiy set and flabby. 

And wlien their seven long years are out 
'I hey hope to bury Labby ; 

Ah! then how peacefully he’ll lie, 

But not in our Abbey I 


As MB after-dinnc'r speaker Sir 
Frederick Fridge is always an acrpii- 
sition. The following is a fair speci¬ 
men of the short, bright speeches for 
which he is celebratctl. It was made 
at a baiKjiiet given to IMr. AV. H. 
(hnnmings, the JTincipal of the 
Cm Id hall School of Music, and was a 
response to the toast of ‘‘ d’he 
Cadies ” : — 

“ It is rcfdly too bad to call upon 
me to acknowledge this toast, more 







80 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


here all day whilst you are tuning,’ says an 
examiner. The lad goes away, and then 
advances a lady, bringing her violin in^ fhe 
case! And it has not been tuned ! What 
occurs ? One of the examiners jumps up 
and undoes the case ; another catches up 
the instrument and tunes it, or tries to. 
A string breaks ! But she is not sent 
out to fetch, the next person. You hear 
one German examiner say, ‘ Sehr scJwn! ’ 
She passes with honours! Tlie unfortu¬ 
nate youth manages only to scrape through. 
In the ladies Ave all have kind supporters. 
Some have admirers. Some have wives 
whom they dare not bring to such a festive 
gathering. Some have Avives like Mr. Cum¬ 
mings.” (“ I have only one! ” interpolated 
that gentleman.) “ In the name of that one 
Avife'of Ills, whom I congratulate upon the 
honour done to her husband, I beg to thank 
you for tlie Avay you have drunk this toast.” 

As conductor of the Boyal Choral 
Society’s Concerts at Albert Hail, Sir 
Frederick Bridge has proved himself to be 
a man Avorthy to succeed that king among 
choral conductors AAdio laboured so faithfully 
and so long to bring the choir to as near a 
state of ■ perfection as possible. With the 
Choral Society, as with his Abbey choir. Sir 
Frederick is immensely popular. His re¬ 
hearsals are never dull, yet he alloAVS not the 


smallest fault to go uucorrected. Of the 
results he obtains I need not speak. All the 
Avorld and his wife and daughters attend the 
Albert Hall Concerts with such regularity 
that any description of these would be a 
superfluity. 

Sir Frederick Bridge has had many odd 
experiences, but pei’haps the funniest of all 
Avas when he discovered a small, suspicions- 
lookiug black bag in the organ-loft, Avhile 
turning over the music just before the 
Jubilee Thanksgiving Service at the Abbey 
in 1887. On opening it gingerly and dis¬ 
covering a loudly ticking clock Avithin, his 
horror Avas increased a hundredfold, for 
it Avas at a time Avheii dynamiters AA^ere 
performing many freakish things around 
London, and preparing all sorts of little 
surprises for people in general and royalties 
in particular. Of course the supposed 

infernal machine ” Avas escorted off the 
premises Avith as much promptitude and 
despatch as the trembling officials could com¬ 
mand. It Avould have been a most heroic 
and exciting affair, of course, had it not 
proA'Od to be a small, harmless American 
clock, that AA^as merely striving to do its duty 
in that station of life, etc. It belonged to 
one of the bandsmen, AA^ho had bought it on 
his way to the rehearsal and then had 
inadvertently left his bag behind him. 


A SONG OF THE DAAVN. 

By Mrs. Comyns Carr. 

Soft, iu tlie dawn, came Love to mo— 
liOve, that is born of tlie sun— 

Love that is bred in the lap of the sea 
When the Night and the Day are one. 


He came on the crest of ihe morning cloud. 

He sprang through the morning mist. 

And laughed as he'leapt from his downy shroud 
Where the Snn and the Ocean kissed. 


He struck at my heart with his spear of flame— 
The Sun set the world ablaze— 

And 1 knew ’twas for mo Love laughed as he came 
And was born of the Sun’s sweet rays. 



YOUNG BARBARIANS, 


Hlf/stratpcl by Harold Co 2 )i)in(j. 


No. I.—THE COUNT, 


“'I'lio liailie r(\i;;inle(l liini with grave disapproval. 


I F you excluded two or tliree Eiiglislmieii 
who spoke with uii accent suggestive of 
an effeminate cliaracter, and liad a fear¬ 
some liabit of walking on the Sal)bath, and 
poor ‘‘ jMoossv,” the French master at tlie 
Seminary, who was a (piantity not worth 
considering, the foreign element in ]\[uirtown 
during the classical days consisted of the 
Count. He never claimed to be a Count, 
and used at first to deiirecate tlie title, but 


* Copyrig*ht, 1!)00, by John Watson, in the United 
States of America. 


iie declined the 
lionour with so 
much, dignity that 
it seemed only to 
prove his riglit, and 
l)y and by he an¬ 
swered to the name 
with simply a slight 
Avave of liis hand 
which he meant for 
deprecation, but 
Avhich came to be 
considered a polite 
acknowledgment. 
His real name was 
not known in Muirtown—not 
because he had not given it, 
but liecause it could not be 
pronounced, l)eing largely 
composed of x\s and k’s, Avitli 
an irritating parsimony of 
A'owels. AVe had every oppor¬ 
tunity of leai’iiing to spell it, 
if we (;ould not pi’onounce it, 
for it was one .of the Count’s 
foreign ways to carry a card- 
case in his ticket-pocket, and 
on being introduced to an 
inhabitant of MuirtoAvn to 
offer his card with the right 
hand Avhile he took off his 
hat Avith the left and boAved 
almost to a right angle. 
Upon those occasions a solid 
mail like Hailie MacFarlane 
Avoiild take hold of the card cautiously, not 
knowing Avhether so unholy a name might 
not go off* and shatter his liaiid, and during 
the Count’s obeisance, Avhicli lasted for 
seA’eral seconds, tlie Bailie regarded him 
Avith grave disapproxal. The mind of iffuir- 
town, during this ])erformauce of the Count’s, 
used to be divided lietAvceu regret that any 
human being should condescend to such 
tricks and profound thankfulness tint Muir- 
towii AAns not pert of a foreign (;ortutry 
where people Avere brought up Avith the 
manners of poodles. Our pity for foreigners 


81 







82 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


was nourished hj the manner of the Count’s 
dress, which would have been a commonplace 
on a loulevard, but astounded Muirtown on 
its first appearance, and always lent an 
element of piquant interest to our streets. 
His perfectly brushed hat, broadish in the 
brim and curled at the sides, which he wore 
at the faintest possible angle, down to his 
patent leather boots, whicli it was supposed 
he obtained in Paris, and wore out at the 
rate of a pair a montli—all was unique and 
wonderful, but it was Ids frock-coat which 
stimulated conversation. It was so tight 
and fitted so perfectly, revealing the outlines 
of his slender form, and there was such an 
indecent absence of waist—waist was a strong 
point with Muirtown men, and in the case of 
persons who had risen to office, like the 
Provost, used to run to forty indies—that a 
report went round the town that the Count 
was a woman. This speculation was con¬ 
firmed rather than refuted by tlic fact that 
the Count smoked cigarettes, which he made 
with Satanic ingenuity while you were 
looking at him, and that he gave a dis¬ 
play of fencing with the best swordsman of 
a Dragoon regiment in the barracks, for 
it was shreAvdly pointed out that those were 
just the very accomplishments of French 
“ Cutties.” This scandal might indeed have 
crystallised into an accepted fact, and the 
Provost been obliged to command the 
Count’s departure, had it not been for the 
shrewdness and good nature of the ‘‘Fair 
Maid of Muirtown.” There always was a 
fair maid in Muirtown—and in those days 
she was fairest of her succession : let this 
flower lie on her grave. She declared to her 
friends that she had watched the Count 
closely and had never once seen him 
examine a woman’s dress when the woman 
wasn’t looking ; and after that no person of 
discernment in Muirtown had any doubt 
about the Count’s sex. It was, however, freely 
said—and that story was never contradicted 
—that he wore stays, and every effort was 
made to obtain the evidence of his landlady. 
Her gossips tried Mistress Jamieson with 
every wile of conversation, and even lawyer’s 
wives, pretending to inquire for rooms for a 
friend, used to lead the talk round to the 
Count’s habits; but that worthy matron 
was loyal to her lodger, and was not quite 
insensible to the dignity of a mystery. 

“Ha, na. Mistress Lunan, I see wliat 
you’re after ; but beggin’ your pardon, a 
landlady’s a landlady, and my mouth’s 
closed. The Count disna ken the difference 
atween Saturday and Sabbath, and the 


money he wastes on tobacco juist goes to 
ina heart; but he never had the blessin’ of a 
Gospel ministry nor the privileges of Muir¬ 
town when he was young. As regards stays, 
whetlier lie wears them or disna wear them 
I’m no prepared to say, for I thank good¬ 
ness that I’ve never yet opened a lodger’s 
boxes nor entered a lodger’s room when he 
was dressin’. The Count pays his rent in 
advance every Monday morning ; he wanted 
to pay on Sabbath, but I toid him it was 
not a lawful day. He gives no trouble in 
the house, and if his doctor ordered him to 
wear stays to support his spine, which I’m 
no sayin’ he did. Mistress Lunan, it’s no 
concern o’ mine, and the weather is inclining 
to snow.” 

His dress Avas a perfect fabric of art, 
however it may liaA^e been constructed ; and 
it was a pleasant sight to see the Count go 
down our main street on a summer after¬ 
noon, approving himself with a side glance 
in the mirrors of the larger shops, striking 
an attitude at our bookseller’s when a iieAV 
print Avas exposed in the AvindoAV, Avaving 
liis cigarette and bloAAung the smoke through 
his nostrils, Avhich AA^as considered a “ tempt¬ 
ing of Providence,” making his respectful 
salutations to every lady Avhom he knew, 
and responding Avith “ Celestial, my friend ! ” 
to Bailie j\IacPariane’s greeting of “ Fine 
groAA*ing Aveather.” MTien he sailed past 
McGuffie’s stal.)le-yard, like Solomon in all 
his glory, that great man, Avho ahvays 
persisted in regarding the Count as a sport¬ 
ing character, Avould touch the rim of his 
hat Avith his forefinger—an honour he paid 
to feAV—and, after the Count had dis¬ 
appeared, Avould say “ Gosh ! ” Avith much 
relish. This astounding spectacle very early 
attracted the attention of the Seminary boys, 
and during his first summer in MuirtOAvn it 
was agreed that he Avould make an excellent 
target for snoAA’ball practice during next 
winter. The temptation was not one AALich 
could have been resisted, and it is to be 
feared that the Count would have been 
confined to the house Avhen the suoaA' was on 
the ground had it not been for an incident 
AAdiich showed him in a neAV light, and 
established him, stays or no stays, in the 
respect of the Seminary for ever. There 
had been a glorious fight on the first day of 
the AA^'ar Avdth the “ Pennies,” and AAdien they 
Avere beaten, a dozen of them, making a 
brave rearguard fight, took up tbeir position 
with the Count’s windows as their back¬ 
ground. There Avere limits to licence even 
in those brave old days, and it was under- 


THE COUNT. 


83 



stood that the windows of houses, especially 
private houses, and still more especially in 
the vicinity of the Seminary, should not be 
broken, and if they were broken the culprits 
were hunted down and interviewed by 
“ Ihilldog ” at length. When the “ Pennies ” 
placed themselves under the protection of 


the Count’s ghiss, which was really an 
unconscious act of meanness on their part, 
the Seminary distinctly hesitated ; but the 
“ Sparrow ” was iu command, and he knew 
no scruples as he knew no fear. 

“ Dash the windows ! ” cried the Seminary 
captain; and when the “ Pennies ” were 
driven along the street, the windows had 


been so effectually ‘‘ dashed,” that there was 
not a sound pane of glass in the Count’s 
sitting-room. As the victorious army re¬ 
turned to their capital, and the heat of 
battle died down, there was some anxiety 
about to-morrow, for Mistress Jamieson was 
not the woman to have her glass broken- for 
nothing, and it was 
shrewdly suspected 
that the Count, with 
all his dandyism, 
would not take this 
affront lightly. As 
a matter of fact. 
Mistress Jamieson 
made a personal call 
upon the Rector 
that evening, and 
explained with 
much eloquence to 
that timid, harassed 
scholar that, unless 
his boys were kept 
in better order, 
Muir town would 
not be a place for 
human habitation ; 
and before she left 
she demanded the 
blood of the 
offenders, and com¬ 
pared Muirtown 
in its present con¬ 
dition to Sodom and 
Gomorrah. As the 
Rector was always 
willing to leave 
discipline in the 
capable hands of 
Bulldog, and as the 
chief sinners would 
almost certainly be 
in his class in the 
forenoon, the 
Count, who had 
witnessed the whole 
battle from a secure 
corner in his sit¬ 
ting-room, and had 
afterwards helped 
Mistress Jamieson 
to clear away the debris, went to give his 
evidence and identify the culprit. He felt 
it to be a dramatic occasion, and he rose to 
its height; and the school retained a grateful 
recollection of Bulldog and the Count side 
by side—the Count carrying himself with 
all the grace and dignity of a foreign 
ambassador come to settle an international 


“ The departure of the Count, with Ihilldog attending him to the door.” 























84 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



dispute, iiiul Bulldog more austere than evei, 
Viecausc lie liatcda “tell-pyct,’ aiid yet knew 
tliiit discipline must be maintained. I’lie 
Count explained with many flourishes that 
he was desolated to come for the first time 
to this so distinguished a Gymnasium upon 
an ei'rand so distasteful, but that a lady had 
laid licr commands on him (“ Dis tlie body 
mean Tmcky Jamieson?” whispered tlie 
Sparrow to 'a neighbour), and he had ever 
been a slave of the sex (Bulldog at this iwint 
regarded him with a disdaiji beyond words). 
The Hector of this place of learning had 
also done him, an obscure person, 
the honour of an invitation to 
come and assist at this function 
of justice ; and although, as the 
Count explained, ho was no 
longer a soldier, obedience wiis 
still the breath of his nostrils. 

Behold him, tlierefore, the 
servant of justice, ready to 
be questioned or to lay down 
his life for law ; and the 


“ And throwing up one of the newl^’ repaired 
windows he made an eloquent speech.” 


themselves in tlie snowtime within 
limits. If they iv^ht wi’ neighbouring 
schools, it’s a maitter of regret ; but 
if they break windows, they’re liable 
to the inaist extreme penalty. Now, 
I’m informed that some of the young 
scoundrels—and I believe tlie very 
laddies are in this class-room at this 
ineennt ” (the Sparrow made no eflort to 
catch Bulldog’s eye, and Howieson’s atten¬ 
tion was entirely occupied with mathematical 
figures)—have committed a breach of the 
peace at Mistress Jamieson’s house. What 
I ask you, sir, to do”—and Bulldog regarded 


day, sir,” and Bulldog’s glance conveyed 
that such a figure as the Count’s ought not 
to be exposed in snowtime; '‘but we’ll 
not keep you long, and I’ll juist state the 
circumstances with convenient brevity. The 
boys of the Seminary are allowed to exercise 


Count bowed again to Bulldog, placing his 
hand upon his heart, and then leant in a 
becoming attitude against the desk, tapping 
liis shining boots with his cane, and feeling 
that he had acquitted himself wiJi credit. 

" We’re sorry to Iming ye out on such a 









THE COUNT, 


85 


the Count with increasing disfavour, as he 
thought of sucli a popinjay giving evidence 
against his laddies—“ is, to look round this 
class-room and point out, so far as ye may 
be able, any boy or boys wlio drove a 
snowball or snowballs through the windows 
of your residence.” 

During this judicial utterance the eyes of 
the Count wandered over the school with 
the most provoking intelligence, and con¬ 
veyed even to the dullest, with a vivacity of 
countenance of which Muirtown was not 
capable, that Bulldog was a tiresome old 
gentleman, that the boys were a set of sad 
clogs capalde of any mischief, that some of 
them were bound to get a first-class thrash¬ 
ing, and, worst of all, that he, the Count, 
knew who would get it, and that he was 
about to give evidence in an instant with 
the utmost candour and elegance of manner. 
When his glance lighted on Sping it was 
with such a cheerful and unhesitating 
recognition that the Sparrow was almost 
abashed, and knew for certain that for him, 
at least, there could be no escape ; while 
Howieson, plunging into arithmetic of his 
own accord for once, calculated rapidly what 
would be his share of the broken glass. 
Neither of them would have denied what 
he did to save himself twenty thrashings ; 
but they shared Bulldog’s disgust that a 
free-born Scot should be convicted on the 
evidence of a foreigner, whoin they always 
associated in his intellectual gifts and tricks 
of speech Avith the monkey which used to go 
round seated on the top of our solitary 
barrel-organ. 

When it is your pleasure, sir,” said Bull¬ 
dog sternly ; and there Avas a silence that 
could be felt, Avhilst the SparroAv already saAv 
himself pointed out Avith the Count’s cane. 

The shutters AA^ent suddenly dowiA on the 
Count’s face ; he became grave and anxious, 
and changed from a man of the Avorld, Avho 
had been exchanging a jest Avith a fcAV gay 
Bohemians, into a Avitness in the Court of 
Justice. 

Assuredly, monsieur, T Avill testify upon 
Avhat you call my soul and conscience,” and 
the Count indicated Avitli his hand Avherc 
both those faculties Avere contained. “ I aauII 
select the boy avIio had the audacity, I Avill 
say profanity, to break the AviudoAvs of my 
good friend i^id hostess, Madame Jamieson.” 

The Count gave himself to the Avork of 
selection, but there AA-as no longer a ray of 
intelligence in his face. He Avas confused 
and perplexed, he looked here and he looked 
there, he made little impatient gestures, he 


said a bad French word, he flung up a hand 
in despair, he turned to Bulldog Avith a 
frantic gesture, as of a man aaJio thought he 
could have done something at once, and 
found he could not do it at all. Once 
more he faced the school, and then SparroAv, 
Avith that instinct of acute observation Avhich 
belongs to a savage, began to understand, 
and gave Howieson a suggestive kick. 

“ xAs a man of honour,” said the Count 
Avith much solemnity, I give my testimony 
and I declare that I do not see one of the 
boys Avho did forget themselves yesterday 
and did ofPer the insult of an assault to 
Madame’s domicile.” 

And it would have been curious if he had 
seen the boys, for the Count Avas looking 
OA'er their heads, and studying the distant 
vieAA^ of the meadoAV and the River Tay AARh 
evident interest and appreciation. 

The mind of the Sparrow Avas now clear 
upon the Count, and Bulldog also understood, 
and in two seconds, so quick is the flash of 
sympathy through a mass of boy life, the 
youngest laddie in the mathematical class¬ 
room kncAV that, although the Count might 
have had the misfortune to be born in 
foreign parts, and did alloAV himself to dress 
like a dancing-master, inside that coat, and 
the stays, too, if he had them on, there Avas 
the heart of a man aaAio Avould not tell tales 
on any fellow, but aaAio also liked his bit of 
fun. 

‘‘ It’s a peety. Count,” said Bulldog, Avith 
poorly concealed satisfaction, “ that ye’re no 
in a poseetion to recognise the culprits, for 
if they’re no here my conviction is they’ie 
not to be found in MuirtoAvn. We can ask 
no more of you, sir, and AA^e’re muckle 
obleeged for yir attendance.” 

“ It is a felicitous affair,” said the Count, 
“ AAdiich has the fortune to introduce me to 
this charming company,” and the Count 
boAved first to Bulldog and then to the 
school Avitli such a marked indication in one 
direction that the SparroAV almost blushed. 
“ My sorroAV is to be so stupid a AAutness ; but, 
monsieur, you Avill alloAv me to pay the penalty 
of my poor eyesight. It aaiII be my pleasure,” 
and again the Count bowed in all directions, 
‘‘ to replace the glass in Madame’s house, and 
the incident, pouf ! it is forgotten.” 

There Avas a SAvift glance from all parts of 
the class-room, and permission Avas read in 
Bulldog’s face. Next instant the mathe¬ 
matical class-room Avas rent with applause 
such as could only be given Avhen fifty sucli 
lads Avanted to express their feelings, and the 
Sparrow led the circus. 


86 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


“ Ye will allow me to say, sir,” and now 
Bulldog came as near as possible to a bow, 
“ that ye have acted this day as a gentleman, 
and, so far as the boys of Muirtown Seminary 
are concerned, ye’re free to come and go 
among us as ye please.” 

The departure of the Count, still bowing, 
with Bulldog attending him to the door and 
offering him overshoes to cover the polished 
leather boots, was a sight to behold, and the 
work done for the rest of the morning was not 
worth mentioning. 

During the lunch hour the school was 
harangued in short, pithy terms by the 
Sparrow, and in obedience to his invitation 
Muirtown Seminary proceeded in a solid 
mass to the Count’s residence, where they 
gave a volley of cheers. The Count was 
more gratified than by anything that had 
happened to him since he came to Muirtown; 
and throwing up one of the newly repaired 
windows he made an eloquent speech, in 
which he referred to Sir Walter Scott and 
Queen Mary and the Fair Maid of Perth, 
among other romantic trifies ; declared that 
the fight between the “ Pennies ” and the 
Seminary was worthy of the great iSTapoleon; 
pronounced the Sparrow to be im brave 
gargon; expressed his regret that he could 
not receive the school in his limited apart¬ 
ments, but invited them to cross with him 
to Mistress McCrum’s, the Seminary tuck- 
shop, where he entertained the whole set to 
Mistress McCrum’s best home-made ginger- 
beer. He also desired that Mistress Jamieson 
should come forward to the window with him 
and bow to the school, while he held her 
hand—which the Count felt would have 
been an interesting tableau. It certainly 
would have been, but Mistress Jamieson 
refused to assist in the most decided terms. 

“ Me stand wi’ the Count at an open 
window, hand in hand wi’ him, and bowin’, 
if ye please, to thae blackguard laddies ? 
Na, na ; I’m a widow o’ good character and 
a member o’ the Free Kirk, and it would ill 
set me to play such tricks. But I’ll say this 
for the Count—he behaved handsome ; and 
I’m judgin’ the’ll no be another pane o’ 
glass broken in my house so long as the 
Count is in it.” And thei'e never was. 

It were not possible to imagine anything 
more different than a Muirtown boy and the 
Count; but boys judge by an instinct which 
never fails within its own range, and Muir¬ 
town Seminary knew that, Avith all his 
foreign ways, the Count was a man. 
liOgends gathered around him and flourished 
exceedingly, being largely invented by Nestie 


and offered for consumption at the mouth of 
the pistol by the Sparrow, Avho let it be 
understood that to deny or even to smile at 
Nestie’s most incredible invention Avould be 
a ground of pei’sonal offence. The Count 
was in turn a foreign nobleman, who had 
fallen in love with the Emperor of Austria’s 
daughter and had been exiled by the imperial 
parent, but that the Princess Avas true to the 
Count, and that any day he might be called 
from Mistress Jamieson’s lodgings to the 
palace at Vienna ; that he Avas himself a 
king of some mysterious European State, 
Avho had been driven out by conspirators, 
but Avhose people Avere going to restore him, 
and that some day the SparroAV Avould be 
staying with the Count in his royal abode 
and possibly sitting beside him on the 
throne. During this romance the SparroAv 
felt it right to assume an air of demure 
modesty, AAdiich Avas quite consistent Avith 
keeping a AAntchful eye on any impertinent 
young rascal aaJio might venture to jeer, 
when the SparroAv AA'ould politely ask him 
what he Avas laughing at, and offer to give 
him something to laugh for. That the Count 
vAns himself a conspirator, and the head 
of a secret society Avhich extended all over 
Europe, with signs and passAA'ords, and that 
Avhenever any tyrant became intolerable, the 
AAwrant for his death Avas sent from Mistress 
Jamieson’s. Whenever one fable greAV 
hackneyed Nestie produced another, and 
it was no longer necessary in MuirtoAvn 
Seminary to buy Indian tales or detective 
stories, for the AAdiole library of fiction Avas 
noAv bound up and Avalking about in the 
Count. 

Between him and the boys there grew up 
a fast friendship, and he Avas never thoroughly 
happy now unless he Avas Avith his “ jolly 
dogs.” He attended every cricket match, 
and at last, after he had learned how, kept 
the score, giving a cheer at every new run 
and tearing his hair Avhen any of his boys 
Avere boAAded out. He rushed round the 
football field Avithout his cane, and generally 
Avithout his hat; and high aboA^e all cheers 
could be heard his “Bravo—bravo, foivards! 
Spar-r-roAv ! ” as that enterprising player 
cleft his Avay through the opponent’s ranks. It 
mattered nothing to the Count tliat his boots 
Avere ruined, and his specklcss clothes soiled, 
he would not have cared thouglihe had burst 
his stays, so long as the “ dogs ” aa^ou and 
he could go up in glory Avith them to Phemie 
McCrum’s and drink to their health in fioAV- 
ing ginger-beer. During the play hour his 
walk seemed ever to bring him to the North 



‘‘It was a i)retty sight to see him watching a battle royal between the tops of Sparrow and Howieson.” 





88 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Meadows, and if a ball by accident, for none 
would have done it by intention, knocked off 
the Count’s hat, he cried “Hoor-r-rah! ” in his 
own pronunciation and bowed in response to 
this mark of attention. It was a pretty 
sight to see him bending forward, his hands 
resting on his knees, watching a battle royal 
between the tops of Sparrow and Howieson ; 
and if anything could be better it was to see 
the Count trying to spin a top himself, and 
expostulating with it in unknown tongues. 
As the boys came to the school in the morn¬ 
ing and went home in the evening up 
Breadalbane Street, the Count was always 
sitting at one of the windows which had 
been broken, ready to wave his hand to 
anyone who saluted him, and in the afternoon 
lie would often open the window to get the 
school news and to learn whether there 
would be a match on Saturday. As time 
went on this alliance told upon the Count’s 
outer man ; he never lost his gay manner, 
nor his pretty little waist, nor could he ever 
have been taken for a Scot, nor ever, if he 
he had lived to the age of Methuselah, have 
been made an elder of the Kirk; but his 


boots grew thicker, though they were always 
neat, and his clothes grew rougher, though 
they were always well made, and his ties 
became quieter, and his week-day hat was 
like that of other men, and, except on 
Sunday, Muirtown never saw the glory of 
the former days. With his new interest in 
life, everyone noticed that the Count had 
grown simpler and kindlier, and Muirtown 
folk, who used to laugh at him with a flavour 
of contempt, began to love liim through 
their boys. He would walk home with 
Bulldog on a summer evening, the strangest 
pair that ever went together ; and it was 
said that many litde improvements for the 
comfort of the lads, and many little schemes 
for their happiness at Muirtown Seminary, 
were due to the Count. It was believed that 
the time did come when he could have returned 
to his own land, but that he did not go because 
he was a lonely man and had found his friends 
in Muirtown; and when he died, now many 
years ago, he left his little all for the benefit 
of his “ jolly dogs,” and the Count, who had 
no mourners of his blood, was followed to 
his grave by every boy at Muirtown Seminary. 













horses imported into these Islands from the 
mainland of Europe as far back as the days 
of the Norman Conquest. This point is 
emphasised by Mr. W. C. Spooner, who 
says : “We have reason to believe that the 
horses employed in the army of William the 
Conqueror were little better, as respects 
breeding, than the cart-horses of the present 


horse, which had been knoAvn throughout 
the fertile plains of Europe from time 
immemorial, and from which no doubt the 
greater portion of our cart-horses are 
descended; for we find that during the 
reign of the Edwards repeated importations 
of these animals took place. And in the 
time of the Duke of Newcastle, who wrote 


dopyriyht photo by] 


lI.Ii.H. THE PlilNCE OF WALES’s “ WIlIllLW IND. 


i:rtunu.er Jiolton^ F.Z.i'i. 


SOME SPLENDID SHTREHORSES. 


By Cambier Bolton, F.Z.S. 


Illustrated from rhotographs luj the Author. 


T here can be but very little doubt 
that the modern Sliire-horse—that 
hairy-legged, big-boned, but active 
equine giant so common in the streets of 
our cities and on our country farms—is 
descended from the old breed of English 
cart-horses. These, in their turn, were 
probably descended from a breed of heavy 


day. So long as armour was in fashion a 
large, massi\'e animal was required to support 
the enormous weight of the steel-clad knight, 
and to withstand the ponderous attacks of a 
similar opponent. The half-bred horse was 
then unknown, and tlie Spanish and other 
imported horses were insufficient in size, so 
that recourse A\as had to the large black 


90 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


a work on horses in 1667, there was in this 
conntiy an established breed of cart-horses. 
The most prevailing colour amongst these 
animals is black—so much so that we 
recognise a distinct breed under the 
appellation of the ‘ old black horse.’ ” 

But nowadays we constantly meet with 
bays and browns, while chestnuts, roans, 
and greys are fairly common, and even 
skewbalds and piebalds are by no means 
rare. This variety and colour is the outcome 
of many crossings. 


—Ely, strangely enough, being the city in 
which Here ward the Wake and the last of 
the English so long defied the Norman 
Conqueror. But Mr. Gilbert Murray, on 
the other hand, claims that the most perfect 
specimens of the Shire-horse to be found in 
the United Kingdom were bred within thirty 
miles of the town of Derby, and that much 
of the ancient and unalloyed blood still 
remains tliere. 

Possibly both statements are more or less 
correct as to the past history of this ancient 



Shire-horses derive their name from the 
counties in which they are most commonly 
found— viz.^ Cambridge, luiicoln, Derby, 
Norfolk, Huntingdon, Bedford, Leicester, 
Cheshire, Kutlancl, Nottingham, and some 
parts of Northampton, Warwick and Shrop¬ 
shire. They have chiefly sprung, however, 
from the rich fen districts in the ]\Iidland 
and Eastern counties, and it was said at one 
time that “more good horses were bred 
within a radius of twenty miles of the city 
of Ely than in all the rest of the Kingdom ” 


breed; but to-day we find them rapidly 
spreading all over Great, and even Greater, 
Britain, for many wealthy landowners, like 
Lords Ellesmere, Spencer, and Powis, the 
Duke of Westminster, Mr. Walter Gilbey, 
Mr. Alexander Henderson, and others, not 
to mention H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, 
have become so deeply interested in the 
breeding of these giants, that they keep not 
tens or twenties, but hundreds between 
them ; and there are few more picturesque 
sights than that of the great brood mares 


SOME SPLEXUrU SHTRE-IIOESES. 


1)1 


and their shapely, 
active foals, feeding 
in British pasture 
lands, whilst a visit 
to any of our agri¬ 
cultural exliibitions 
is well repaid hj the 
sight of the monster 
scallions, decorated 
with 1) right- 
colon red rosettes 
on their head-stalls, 
and ribbons on their 
manes and tightly 
tied-up tails, the 
long, silky hair from 
knee to fetlock 
carefully bruslicd 
out with dry saw¬ 
dust, and their coats 
shining, in. the very 
pink of condition. 

Yet, despite the 
wonderful utility of 
these animals, it is 
not so very many 
years ago since they 

were quite neglected and the breed almost their clean-legged rivals, the Clydesdales and 
lost to us ; for at one time they were thought the old Cleveland bays,” were looked upon 
to be too slow and heavy for town work, and as the heavx idefds of wliat cart-horses should 

l:)e like. Fortunately 
public taste has 
changed once more ; 
the clean-legged 
horses were found to 
be unable to stand 
the wear and tear of 
the paved streets, and 
it has been proved 
that the heavy Shire- 
horse, bred as he is 
now, with quicker 
and lighter action, is 
more suitable for 
general purposes, 
that lie stands the 
stone - paved streets 
far better, and com¬ 
mands a much higher 
price in the market, 
as recent sales go to 
prove. 

And not only have 
the people of Great 
Britain recognised 
this at last, but our 
fello w-couu trymen i n 
Greater Britain— 
those in Australia, 








92 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Canada, and even Sonbh Africa—have become 
large buyers of onr surplus stock; and in 
Melbourne, Montreal, Toronto, Cape Town, 
and other cities they may be seen stepping 
out gaily in front of loads which three or 
four of the ordinary light horses of those 
countries could scarcely move. 

The writer well reinembers a recent 
visit to the stables of one of the great 
horse-loving rajalis of India. Kound 
three sides of a huge stone enclosure ran 
sheds in which stood scores of beautiful 
Arabs, many Australian “Walcrs,” and active 
native ponies ; but the liorse specially 
reser\^ed to the last, as a honne houche for the 
English sahib, was an enormous black Shire- 
stallion, who was led forth, kicking and plung¬ 
ing like a colt, whilst ten to fifteen little natives 
hung on for dear life to the leading-chains, 
the perspiration rolling down their arms and 
faces, the whites of their eyes shining, in 
the most ludicrous fashion, through the 
clouds of red dust, as they clung to the 
skittish twenty-year-old monster; and it 


remains a problem, unsolved to this day, 
how those dusky little Hindoos could ever 
groom him properly without the help of a 
step ladder. 

A remarkable feature in the stud-book of 
the Shire-Horse Society is the length of the 
pedigrees of the best-known stallions, which, 
for the sake of brevity, may be ])rinted as : 
“ ‘ British Wonder ’ (foaled in 1875) g. g. g. 
g. g. g. g. g. g.s Milton and Colley’s brown 
stallion ”—each g., excepting the last, repre¬ 
senting the word “ great,” thus giving a total 
of nine generations to this horse’s pedigree, 
even in 1875, and now two or perhaps three 
more would be added to the descendants of 
‘‘•British AYonder,” whose pedigree traces 
back direct to the end of the last century. 
And it is most interesting to notice the 
names that have been selected for these huge 
British horses, names so typical of the land 
of their birth as to be worth quoting, for 
we meet with “ England’s Glory,” “ Honest 
Tom,” “ Tliumper,” “ Samson,” “ What’s 
AYanted,” “ Heart of Oak,” “ Honest Lass,” 




SOME SPLENDID 8HTHE-H0RSES. 


93 



Copyright photo hy'\ {^Gamhier Bolton, F.Z.S. 

MR. grandage’s champion mare, “queen of the shirks.” 


“ Cast Steel,” “ Bar None,” “ Spanker,” 
‘‘ England’s Boast,” “ Yorkshire Lad,” “ So 
Seldom Seen,” and many others equally happy 
in their exact description of these giants, 
and redolent of the pastures and fen countries 
in which they were bred. “ Areal good ’un ” 
should stand about seventeen hands, should 
be long, low, and wide in form, and, above 
all, should be a good mover at cart-horse 
pace— viz.^ walking, and if trotting should 
pick up his feet and show the action of a 
Norfolk cob. 

The Prince of Wales’s “ Whirlwind ” 
(14,935) is a good specimen of the “ old black 
horse ” breed, and can trace his pedigree, 
through ‘‘ Honest Tom,” back for many 
generations, and is interesting for comparison 
with the more modern type of Shire-1 lorse 
w^hich our photograplis show. 

One of the most picturesque of modern- 
day stallions is Mr. MclMullen’s dark grey 
“Iron Chancellor” (14,677), champion at 
Anglesca, and winner of the Cup at the 
Bath and West of England Show. He 
stands seventeen hands at the shoulder, has 
good legs, enormous bone, and fine quality 
hair, whilst he is an excellent mover, and a 
typical dray-horse. Looking at his beautiful 


dapplings and white mane, one is reminded 
of the horses so beloved by Bosa Bouheur,. 
and immortalised by her in her picture of 
“ The Horse Fair.” 

Although, of course, the mares cannot be 
expected to come near the stallions in beauty 
of appearance, massiveness, and general 
picturesqueness, yet they must not be passed 
over witliout notice, and in “ Queen of the 
Shires” (20,686), Mr. Grandage, of Leeds, 
owns the champion mare of the show in 
London in 1897. She is a deep brown, and 
with her darker dapplings appears to the 
uninitiated eye to be a black. She was 
three years old at the time of her great 
victory, and although, in the photograph, 
she looks staid and rather sleepy, she is 
remarkably “ showy ” in the ring ; and as she 
trotted round and round the huge Agri¬ 
cultural Hall, at Islington, on the day of her 
triumph, loud volleys of applause from the 
thousands of onlookers proclaimed how 
splendidly she moved, and how popular “ the 
Queen ” and her owner are amongst all lovers 
of the Shire-horse. In the “ Duchess of 
York ” (19,855) Mr. Grandage owns another 
splendid animal, although not equal to his 
champion ; but as he bred her himself, he is 




94 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


naturally proud of her victories ; and being 
one of the judges at our largest shows, when 
he sums her up as “ a really good one,” we 
may rest assured that his verdict is correct. 

On the day when ‘‘ the Queen ” Avon her 
championship for mares, Mr. Alexander 
Henderson’s magnificent hay foui’-year-old 
stallion, ‘‘Markeaton Eoyal hlarold” (15,225), 
AA\as aAvarded tlie corresponding cnp for the 
opposite sex; and although even then rumours 
of a most Avonderful son of his AA^ere heard, 
no one Avas prepared for the sensational series 
of wins that haA^e since taken place ; and 
Avhen the champion returned to his home 
at Buscot Park, near Farringdon, an offer, 
it is said, of no less than £5,000 Avas refused 
for him by his OAvner. 

At the great shoAV at Islington in 1898, Mr. 
Alexander Henderson, M.P., exhibited four 
celebrated animals : his champion, “ Mark- 
eaton Eoyal Harold,” AAdio, noAvfive years old, 
again won first and the £20 cup for the best 
stallion in his classes ; his superb bay mare, 
“ Aurea” (13,951), Avho, at seven years old, 
won first and the £10 cup for the best mare 
in her classes, and then the £50 Challenge 
Cup, and finally the £25 Championship Cup 
for the best mare in the show (beating ‘‘ the 
Queen ”) ; his bay filly, ‘‘ Locking Loiret ” 
(22,071), Avho took first and the £10 cup for 
the best in her classes ; and the sensational 
bay colt, ‘‘ Buscot Harold ” (10,570), avIio, at 


tAvo years old, Avon first and the £20 cup for 
the best in his classes, and Avas then led into 
the ring to com})ete against his father for the 
championshi]) of the shoAV. 

FeAV of the thousands avIio Avere present 
Avill ever forget that memorable sight ; and 
as the judges sent first one, and tlien the 
other, Avalking and trotting round the huge 
ring, the spectators broke into thunders of 
applause, in Avhich tlie Prince of Wales joined 
most lieartily. Mr. Henderson’s face Avas a 
study in itself, for although both Avere his 
property, tlie colt AA^as bred by him, Avhilst 
his sire Avas bred by Mr. Jolin Smith, of 
Ashbourne, and, perhaps someAA'hat naturally, 
he favoured the youngster; and as the 
judges hesitated, and made fresh examina¬ 
tions of both, and then compared notes Avith 
each other, one could see the anxiety of the 
fortunate OAvner plainly Avritten on his face. 
But Avhen the red, Avliite, and blue rosette 
AA^as handed to the groom aa Iio held “ Buscot 
Harold,” and the great building SAvelled Avith 
roars of applause, his suspense aa'US at an 
end ; and, after first receiving the hearty 
congratulations of the Prince, and then both 
the championship cups and the tAvo challenge 
cups, he left the ring tlie proud holder of a 
most Avonderful “record,” Avhich it is more 
than probable Avill never again be repeated 
by any one person in the annals of Shire- 
horse history. 



<'(t}yyrifjht photo hy^ IGambier Bolton, F.Z.S. 

“ BEKOKK TJIE JL1>GKS.” 




T he Im^e mass of metal here labelled 
‘‘ A Century’s Hard Cash ” represents 
the gold, silver and bronze (including 
copper) moneys of this Realm which have 
been coined during the hundred years 
1800-1899. It is a great cube, that measures 
more than 38 ft. each Avay, and it includes 
only those coins Avtiich have been made for 
use in these Islands—not the miscellaneous 
coins made in the Royal Mint for use in 
India and other countries. 

At the top is a slab of solid gold o\'er 
3^ ft. thick ; then comes a slab of silver 
nearly 12-| ft. thick, and the bronze base is 
nearly 22| ft. thick—a total height of nearly 
38J ft., which is also, of course, the measure¬ 
ment of the other sides of this great cube of 
British bullion. 

The weight of this huge mass is just 
under 1G,000 tons, or equal to the Aveight of 
320 large express railway locomotives. The 
value is almost 385 millions sterling, or equal 
to sixty per cent, of the present amount of 
the National Debt. The number of coins 
that were made from this mass of metal Avas 
the astounding total of 2,439 millions (nearly), 
or almost sufficient to give tAvo British coins 
to every man, woman and child noAV living 
m che whole Avorld. 

In order to obtain the results just briefly 

Copyright, 1900, by John Holt Schooling, in the 
United States of America. 


set doAVii I had to examine the official records 
of the coinage during the century, and it 
Avas specially interesting to look at the 
accounts for the period 1800-1815. England 
was hard up, the great French war Avas 
draining the country of men and money, 
and the silver coinage Avas suspended, only 
a trifle of small silver moneys, under the 
denominational value of a sixpence, being 
coined during those years, the value of 
Avhich Avas only £1,187 for the av hole sixteen 
years. The coinage of gold aA'US also reduced 
to the lowest limit—less than five millions’ 
Avorth of gold coin Avas made during those 
sixteen lean years; no copper money Avas made 
at the Mint, but some aa^us made by Mr. 
Boulton, at Birmingham. The average yearly 
A^alue of the coinage during 1800-1815 Avas 
only £292,038, as com])arecl Avith an average 
yearly value during 181()-1899 of £4,527,544, 
nearly sixteen times as large an output yearly. 
The average yearly value of coinage during 
the last ten years has been about 7^ millions 
sterling. The account from Avhich I got 
these early records is dated 14th June, 1816 
—one year later than the battle of AYaterloo, 
Avhen the French Avar came to a close—and 
then, it seems, we began to look around and 
take stock of things Avhich had been inter¬ 
rupted by the great war, including the 
accounts of the coinage. 

The Summary Table No. 1 shows to us, 


95 























THE WINDSOll MAGAZINE. 


00 


NAjNJE of coin. 

NUMBER made. 

FACE-VALUi:. 

Gold Coins. 


£ 

Five-Pound Piece. 

73,360 

360,800 

Two-Pound Piece. 

151,183 

302,360 

Guinea. 

361,473 

379,547 

Sovereign. 

273,263,194 

273,208,194 

Half-Guinea. 

3,822,548 

1,744,888 

Half-Sovereign. 

112,877,400 

50,438,700 

Seveii-Sliilling Piece. 

7,278,087 

2,547,540 

Total Gold Coins.1 

1 

397,327,845 

£385,042,485 

Silrer Coins. 


£ 

Crown. 

8,745,200 

2,180,801 

Four-Sliilliiig Piece. 

2,089,82,0 

587,900 

Half-Crown. 

85,075,987 

10,709,492 

Florin. 

80,908,410 

8,696,841 

Sliilliiig. 

828,897,880 

10,444,894 

Sixpence . 

258,888,780 

6,347,218 

Foiu’pence. 

20,015,742 

343,590 

Threepence. 

127,110,414 

1,588,879 

Twopence. 

098,895 

5,782 

Penny-Halfpenny. 

479,070 

2,998 

Penny. 

801,240 

3,338 

Total Silver Coins. 

916,560,900 

£46,807,305 

Copper and Bronze Coins. 


£ 

Penny . 

478,044,090 

1,994,351 

Halfpenny. 

401,029,061 

835,478 

Farthing. 

228,049,028 

238,176 

Half-Farthing. 

10,488,104 

8,502 

Total Copper and Bronze Coins 

1,124,701,489 

£3,076,567 

All Coins. 

2,438,650,300 

£384,980,357 


1. —A SUMMARY OF THE COINS OF THE REALM MADE DURING THE HUNDRED YEARS—IST JANUARY, 1800, 

TO 31st DECEMBER, 1899. 













































A GENTURYV^ HARD GASH, 


97 


for each denomination of 
coin made during 1800- 
1899, the number of each 
coin made and the face- 
value. 

Five-pound gold pieces 
were first coined in 1887, 
on the occasion of tlie 
Queen’s Jubilee, but I find 
double sovereigns—or two- 
pound pieces—as far back 
as tlie year 1823. The tliird 
gold coin on our list—tlie 
guinea (so called, by the 
way, because it was first 
made of gold brought from 
Guinea, on the AYest Coast 
of Africa)—^has been coined 
once, and only once, during 
the century— viz.^ in 1813, 
in which year the lialf- 
guinea and the third-guinea, 
a seven-shilling gold piece, 
were also coined for the last 
time. 

The sovereign first comes 
on this century’s list in 
1817, although gold coins 
called sovereigns were made 
as far back as Henry VII.’s 
reign. They were issued 
up to the time of James I., 
and then the sovereign fell 
out of the coinage list until 
George III. issued it in 
1817. The half-sovereign 
was also issued in 1817 for 
the first time in the nine- 
teentli century. 

Of the denominations of 
the silver coin in this 
summary - table, the Mint 
now makes only crowns, 
half - crowns, florins, shil¬ 
lings, sixpences, threepences, 
and silver Maundy money 
from one penny to four- 
pence. 

The copper half-farthings, 
of which £8,502 worth were 
made during 1800-1899, 
were first coined in 1843. 

The vast total of this 
summary of the century’s 
coinage —^ £384,980,357 —■ 
may be better understood if 
I say that at three per cent, 
interest this amount of 
money would yield a per- 



2. —THE VALUE OF THE MONEY COINED DURING 1800-1899 IS EQUAL lO 
HALF-A-CROWN BEING MADE FOR EVERY TICK OF THE CLOCK THROUGH¬ 
OUT THE CENTURY, DAY AND NIGHT, WITHOUT CESSATIONo 


H 

























!)8 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



3. —the penny wins the race 1 or I’OPrEARITY BETWEEN THE TEN LEADINRi COINS OE THE CENTURY. 


petual income of very nearly one million ster¬ 
ling per calendar month. Its value is also 
given by the statement illustrated in No. 2— 
vlz.^ that the value of the coinage during 
1800-1809 has been (approximately) at the 
average rate of half-a-crown’s worth of money 
coined for every second of time throughout 
the century, day and night, without cessation. 

It is interesting to learn from No. 1 the 
degree of popularity of the coins, for these 
are made to supply the demand for them, 
and people get from the Mint the coins 
that they ask for. We of the nineteenth 
century have asked for pennies, and have 
got them. 

No. 3 illustrates the race for popularity 
during the century between the ten leading 
coins, which, as No. 1 shows, are :— 


1. The Penny 

IMillions of each 
coin made 
during 1800-1890 

479 

2. The Halfpenny 

401 

3. Tlie Shilling . 

329 

4. The Sovereign 

273 

T). The Sixpence 

254 

(). The Farthing 

229 

7. The Threepence 

127 

8. The Half-sovereign. 

113 

9. The Florin 

87 

10. The Half-crown 

86 

The ten leading coins 

. 2,378 

The twelve other coins 

61 

All coins made during 1800- 

1899 2,439 





















99 


A CENTURY^S HARD CASH, 


There is, as Table 1 shows, ^ a big drop 
between the half-crown, which is the last of 
the ten most popular coins, and the four- 
pence, which is the leading coin of the 
twels^e miscellaneous coins that have not 
been sufficiently popular to win a place in 
our first ten. This drop is from 80 millions 
of half-crowns to only 20 or 21^ millions of 
fourpences, and the other coins tail off 
quickly until we reach the despised five-pound 
piece, which comes last on our list of twenty- 
two coins with the poor total of / 3,3(10 
made ; people don’t want five-pound-pieces— 
they prefer pennies—and so the Mint has 
made but a few of these handsome gold 
coins. 

The universal penny is an easy winner. 


He wins by a margin of nearly 80 millions 
as compared with The halfpenny, who runs 
into the second place. The shilling comes 
third, followed by the sovereign, who in 
point of actual value, but not of number, 
takes the first place (see Table 1), where the 
sovereign leads the value list with a fine 
total of over 273 millions sterling. 

Then, in No. 3, the sixpence and the far¬ 
thing sprint gamely round the bend, and 
each secures an honourable place—fifth and 
sixth respectively. The four other coins 
lag in the race, and the heavy old half-crown 
has, as wjb see in No. 3, ceased to persevere, 
seeing the lead that all the other competitors 
have' obtained. The half-crown is a nice, 
genial, tij^ping, Christmas-boxy old boy, and 



NEARLY 

y&INCH 

THICK 


COINAGE DURING 1800-l»9y 
POUAR DIAMETER OF THE 
HALF AN INCH THICK. 


4.—THE METAL THAT' WAS USED FOR THE 
MAKE A SOLID SQUARE ROD AS LONG AS THE 1 
[7,899 miles], THE ROD BEING NEARLY 







100 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


I am glad lie gets a pl.ce in tlie ten most 
popular coins of the centniT—Imt he’s 
pretty nearly done up hy his effoi’t. 

The metal that has been coined into the 
stupendous amount of money made by the 
Mint duihig 1800-181)9 would suffice to 
make a square-sided rod as long as the polar 
diameter of the earth, 7,899 miles, and this 
rod would be nearly half an inch thick. 
I’ve left the end of the rod sticking out 
from No. 4, and the end you them see is of 
the actual size that this rod would be. It 
would, as I say, be long enough to extend 
right through the earth from the South 
Pole to the North Pole. This is not a bad 
record of work for the Royal ]\Iint, when 
one considers that each of the 2,4:19 millions 


of coins whose metal is contained in this 
7,899 mile rod has been separately made 
and most carefully tested and examined 
before it has been passed as a true coin of 
the Realm. 

With this vast amount of money facing 
one, one feels inclined to ask, “ What is my 
share of it? Mhere do I come in ?” On 
examination, my present share of the 
century’s hard cash is, as I hud by turning 
out my pockets, only £7 96*. 'diL, and this 
does not seem enough. 

Taking the present population of the 
United Kingdom at forty millions, and 
dividing the total face-value of the coins 
imnle during 1800-1899 (see Table I) among 
this population, the average share for each 



5. —THIS IS 


YOUR SHARE OF THE TEN 
SHARE OF ALL THE 


MOST POPULAR COINS MADE DURING 1800-1899—£9 12s 
OTHER COINS AMOUNTS TO 2^6/.— TOTAL £9 Us. Qd. 




YOUR 





A CENTURY^S HARD GASH, 


101 


one of us works out to £9 1 2s. Q>d. apiece. 
[I thought my share was too small.] 

The ten leading coins of the century, 
shown in No. 3, make up nearly the whole of 
this individual share of £9 12s. 6c?., which, 
as No. 5 shows, is composed as follows :— 

This is Your Share of ihe Coinage during 
1800-1899. 




£ 

s. 

d. 

Two Half-Crowns 


0 

5 

0 

Twelve Pennies. 


0 

] 

0 

Two Florins 


0 

4 

0 

Ten Halfpennies 


0 

0 

5 

Eight Shillings . 


0 

8 

0 

Seven Sovereigns 


7 

0 

0 

Six Farthings . 


0 

0 

n 

Six Sixpences 


0 

3 

0 

Three Half-Sovereigns 


1 

10 

0 

Three Threepences 


{) 

0 

9 



9 

12 

H 

Your share of other coins. 




wdiich are not among 

the 




ten leading coins of 

the 




century, is 


0 

0 

2i 

Total 


£9 

12 

6 


I hope you have your share. 


Finally, it is interesting and suggestive to 
compare the coinage per head of population 
in 1800, in 1850, and at the present time. 
Here are the facts :— 

Yearly Coinage 
Value of per Head of 

Coinage. Population. Population. 
£ £ d. 

In 1800 . 190,028 15 millions 0 0 3 

In 1850 . 1,621,381 27-^- „ 0 12 

Now . . 7,500,000 40 „ 0 3 9 

This little statement tells us that the great 

increase of population since 1800 and since 

1850 has been quite outpaced by the 
increase in the yearly amount of coinage per 
head of population. The present amount of 
yearly coinage per head of population is 
fifteen times as great as it was in 1800, and 
more than three times as great as in 1850. 
This is a sign of material prosperity that 
should iiot escape notice when the events of 
the nineteenth century are being reviewed. 

One does not wish to attacli undue im¬ 
portance to this remarkable increase in the 
amount of hard cash, for there are many 
things other than mere money that are of 
more value to a community as a sign of 
progress ; but, despite this reservation, such 
an increase as is here shown must be regarded 
as distinctly satisfactory. 


SONG. 

By L. Gr. Moberly. 


Do you remember still 
The sunny sweetness of that April day. 
The purpling hazel copse,—the larks’ clear 
lay ?— 

Do you remember still ? 


Have you forgotten yet 
The robin’s song, borne on the autumn 
breeze,— 

September’s golden touch upon the trees ?— 
Have you forgotten yet ? 


Might it not ever be 

That some to-morrow,—in the far away,— 
Should bring again the joy of yesterday ?— 
Might it not ever be ? 










Burden'd wilh ils wce^llK of 
Glisluing runs eavch shre^mlel now, 
Gfivraboling ftii?)dgh Ihe golden dd^y; 
Pdunl ^nd Spring. , 

Hs\rk!they sing, 

Vvblcome sunsliine-welcome Spring! 

ISow Ihe woods sWifd wilh eyes; 
liow,lheir weeds svnd mosses through 
Peep ihe whik e^nemones 
Da^isies pinkd, e\nd violeb blue; 
Flowers, ihey spring; 


Birds,ibey sing, 

All lo swell the pomp of §i 
Benue: 




































By Octave Thanet."' 
Illustrated by John Da Costa, 


T he flies and the sun ! The sun and 
the flies ! The two tents of the 
division w^ard in the hospital had 
been pitched end to end, thus turning them 
into one. The sun filtered through the 
cracks of the canvas ; it poured in a broad, 
dancing, shifting column of gold through 
the open tent flap. The air was hot —not 
an endurable, dry heat, but a moist, sticky 
heat which drew an intolerable mist from 
the water standing in pools beneath tlie 
plank flooring of the tents. The flies had 
no barrier, and they entered in noisome 
companies, to swarm, heavily buzzing, about 
the medicine spoons and the tumblers, and 
crawl over the nostrils and mouths of the 
typhoid patients, too weak and stupid to 
brush them away. The other sick men 
would lift their feeble skeletons of hands 
against tliem, and a tall soldier who walked 
between the cots, and was tlie sole nurse on 
duty, waved his palm-leaf fan at them and 
swore softly under his breath. 

There were ten sei'ious cases in the ward. 
The soldier was a raw man detailed only the 
day before, and not used to nursing, being 
a blacksmitli in civil life. An overworked 
surgeon had instructed him in the use of a 
thermometer, but he was much more confident 
of the success of his lesson than the instructed 
one. 

There was one case in ])articular bothered 
the nurse : he returned to the cot where tin's 

* Copyright, by Octave Thanet, in the United 

States of America. 


case lay more than once, and eyed the gaunt 
figure which lay so quietly under the sheet 
with a dejected attention. Once he laid his 
hand shyly on the sick man’s forehead, and 
when he took it away he strangled a 
desperate sort of a sigh. Then he wtilked 
to the end of the tent and stared dismally 
down the camp street, flooded with sunshine. 

“ Well, thank God, there’s Spruce ! ” 
said he. 

A man in a canvas uniform, carrying a 
bale of mosquito netting, was walking 
smartly through the- glare. He stopped at 
the tent. 

“ Hoav goes it ? ” said he cheerfully, but 
in the lowest of tones. He was a short man 
and thin, but with a good colour under his 
tan, and teeth gleaming at his smile, white 
as milk. 

“ Why, I’m kinder worried ’bout 
Maxwell-” 

Before he could finish his sentence Spruce 
was at Maxwell’s cot. His face changed. 

“ Git the hot-water bottle quick’s you 
can ! ” he muttered, “ and git the screen— 
the one I made ! ” As he spoke he was 
dropping brandy into the corners of Maxwell’s 
mouth. The brandy trickled down the 
chin. 

“ He looks awful quiet, don’t he ? ” 
whispered the nurse, with an awestruck 
glance. 

‘‘ You git them things ! ” said Spruce ; 
and he sent a single flash of his eyes after 
Ids words, whereat tlie soldier shuffled 
awkwardly out of the tent, returning first 













104 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



A tall soldier on duty waved his palm-leaf fan at them.” 


with the screen and last with the bottles. 
Then he watched Sprnce’s rapid and silent 
movements. At last he ventured to breathe. 

“ Say, he ain’t—he ain’t—he aiirt- -1 ” 

Spruce nodded, d’he other turned a kind 
of groan into a cough and wiped his face. 
Awkwardly he helped Spruce wherever there 
was the chance for a hand, and in a little 
while his bungling agitation readied the 
worker, who straightened up and turned a 
grim face on him. 


“ Was it me ? ” he whispered then. “ For 
God’s sake. Spruce ! I did everything the 
doctor told me, nigh’s I could remember. I 
didn’t disturb him, ’cause he ’peared to be 
asleep. I—I never saAv a man die before ! ” 
“ It ain’t no fault of yours,” said Spruce, 
in the same low whisper. ‘‘I’m sorry for 
you. Did you give him the ice I got ? ” 
“Yes, I did, sergeant.” 

“And was there enough for Gi’een and 
Dick Danvers ? ” 



105 


THE HERO OF COMPANY G. 


“ Yes; I kept it rolled up in flannel and 
newspapers. Say, I got a little more, 
sergeant.” 

“ How ? ” 

“ The doctors or some fellers had a tub of 
lemonade outside, a little bit further down. 
I chipped off a bit.” 

Spruce ground his teeth ; but he made no 
comment. All he said was, “You go git 
Captain Hale and report. Tell the captain 
I got his folk’s address. They’ll want him 
sent home. They’re rich folk and they 
were coming on. Guess they’re on the way 
now. Be quiet! ” 

The soldier was looking at the placid face. 
A sob choked him. 

“ He said ‘ Thank you ’ every time I gave 
him anything,” he gulped. “ God ! it’s 
murder to put fools like me at nursing, and 
the country full of women that know liow 
and want to come ! ” 

“ S-s-s ! ’Tain’t no good talking. You 
done your best. Go and report.” 

As the wretched soldier lumbered off, 
Spruce set his teeth on an ugly oatli. 

“I ought to have stayed, maybe,” he 
thought, “ but I’ve been doing with so little 
sleep my head was feeling dirty queer; and 
the doctor sent me. Collapse, of course. 
Temperature ran down to normal, and poor 
Tooley didn’t notice, and him too weak to 
talk ! Well, I hope I git the G boys through, 
that’s all I ask !” 

He went over to the next cot, where lay 
the nearest of the G boys, greeting him 
cheerily. 

“ Hello, Dick !” 

Dick was a handsome young spectre just 
beginning to turn the corner in a bad case 
of typhoid fever. His blue eyes lighted at 
Spruce’s voice, and he sent a smile back at 
Spruce’s smile. 

“ Did you get some sleep ?” said he. 

“ ^ hat’s that you have in your hand ?” 

“ That’s milk ; real milk from a cow. 
Yes, lots of sleep. You drink that.” 

The sick man drank it with an expression 
of pleasure. 

“ I don’t believe any of the others get 
milk,” he murmured ; “ save the rest for 
Edgar.” 

“ Edgar don’t need it, Dick,” Spruce 
answered gently. 

Dick drew a long, shivering sigh, and his 
eyes wandered to the screen. 

“ He Wiis a soldier, and he died for his 
country, jest the same as if he was hit by a 
Mauser,” said Spruce—he had taken the sick 
boy s long, thin hand, and was smoothing 


the fingers—“ it’s what we all got to expect 
when we enlist.” 

“ Of course,” said Dick, smiling, “ that’s 
all right, for him or for me ; but he—he was 
an awfully good fellow, Cris.” 

“ Sure.” 

Spruce made his rounds. He was the star 
nurse of the hospital. It was partly experi¬ 
ence. Cris Spruce had been a soldier in the 
Regulars and fought Indians, and helped the 
regimental surgeon through a bad attack of 
typhoid, which came to the fort as a con¬ 
sequence of too ambitious plumbing. But 
it was as much a natural gift. Cris had a 
light foot, a quick eye, a soft voice ; he was 
indomitably cheerful, and consoled the most 
querulous patient in the ward by describing 
how much better his lot, with no worse than 
septic pneumonia, than a man whom he 
(Spruce) had known well, who was scalped. 

Spruce had enlisted from a Western town, 
where he had happened to be at the date of 
his last discharge. He had a great opinion 
of the town. And he never tired recalling 
the scene of their departure, as amid tears 
and cheers and the throbbing music of a 
brass band, with their pockets full of cigars 
and an extra car full of luncheon boxes, and 
a thousand dollars companv spending-money 
to their credit. 

“ A man, he comes up to me,” says Spruce, 

“ a big man in the town, rich and all that. 
He says, calling me by name—I don’t know 
how he ever got my name, but he had it— 
he says, ‘I’m told you’ve been with the 
Regulars. Look after the boys a little,’ says 
he. ‘ That I will,’ says I. ‘ I’ve been six years 
in the service and I know of a few wrinkles.’ 

I do, too. He gave me a five-dollar bill, 
after he’d talked a while to me, and one of 
his own cigars. ‘ Remember the Town’s 
back of you ! ’ says he. ’Tis, too. I’d a 
letter from the Committee they got there, 
asking if we had everything, offering to pay 
for nurses if they’d be allowed. Oh, it’s a 
bully town !” 

Spruce himself had never known the 
sweets of local pride. He had drifted about 
in the world until at twenty lie drifted into 
the Regular Army. He had no kindi’ed 
except a brother, whose career was so little 
creditable that Spruce was relieved when it 
ended, were the truth known, in a peniten¬ 
tiary. He had an aunt of whom he often 
spoke, and whom he esteemed a credit to the 
family. She was a widow woman in an Iowa 
village, who kept a boarding-house for rail¬ 
way men, and had reared a large family, not • 
one of whom (Spruce was accustomed to 


106 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


explain in moments of expansion, on pay day 
when his heart had been warmed Avith good 
red liquor) had ever been to jail. Spruce 
had never seen his estimable relative, but he 
felt on terms of intimacy Avith her, because 
occasionally on these same pay days he Avould 
mail her a hve-dollar bank note, the receipt 
of Avhich Avas always promptly acknoAvledged 
by an educated niece, avIio could spell most 
of her Avords correctly and avIio alAA^ays 
thanked him for his “kind and Avelcome 
gift,” told him Avhat they proposed to do 
with the money, and invited him to come to 
see them. 

He always meant to go, although he never 
did go. It Avas his favourite air castle, being 
able to go on furlough to the village Avhere 
his aunt lived and shoAV his medal. He had 
won the medal in an Indian light, Avdiere he 
had rescued his captain. The captain died 
of his Avounds ; and Spruce never got drunk 
(vdiich I regret to confess he did oftener 
than Avas good for either his soul or the 
service) that he didn’t talk about liis captain, 
Avho had been his hero, and cry over him. 
Spruce, Avho Avas a cheery creature in his 
normal state, ahvays dcA'clopod sentiment and 
pathos when he Avas revealed by liquor. 

Now, he had another day dream. It Avas 
to be greeted l)y the cheering; croAvds. Again 
he Avould march down the sunny streets, 
Avith the band playing, and the faces, and the 
shouts. And the men Avho had stood by the 
company so staunchly Avonld be pointing 
him out and telling each other his mythical 
exploits, and adding the record of his Indian 
exploits, Avhich Spruce felt that an inattentive 
country had not appreciated. A dozen times 
a day he pictured the scene, he mentally 
listened to the talk, he Avalking Avith a rigid 
and unseeing military mien. He approxi¬ 
mated the number of glasses a man could 
take without grazing indecorum—for he Avas 
determined he Avould not be riotous in his 
joy—and he used to AAdiistle the refrain of a 
convivial song— 

“ Enj’y yourselves, enj’y yourselves 
But don't do no disgrace ! ” 

MeaiiAvhile his consciousness of in some 
Avay caring for the Avhole company held him 
a model of sobriety. In fact, he did take 
care of the company, secretly instructing the 
captain on the delicacies of military etiquette 
and primitive sanitary conditions, and openly 
shoAving the commissary sergeant liow to 
make requisitions and barter his supei’fluities 
of rations for acceptalile canned goods at the 
groceries of the toAvn. He explained all the 


Regulars’ artless devices of being comfortable, 
he mended the boys’ morals and their blouses 
in the same breath, and he inculcated all the 
Regulars’ traditions and superstitions. 

But it is to be confessed, again, that Avhile 
Spruce Avas living laboriously up to his lights 
of righteousness, under this ncAV stimulus, 
the lights Avere rather dim ; and in particular, 
as regards the duty of a man to pick up 
outlying portable property for his company, 
they Avould have shocked a police magistrate. 
Neither did he rank among the martial 
virtues the ornament of a meek and quiet 
spirit. 

“ A good captain is ahvays a kicker,” said 
Spruce firmly ; “ he’s got to be. Look at 
this here camp, captain ; the mess tent’s all 
under Avater, Ave’re standing in the slush 
every meal Ave eat. Water’s under our tent, 
Avater-” 

“ I know’, I knoAV, sergeant,” interrupted 
the perplexed and Avorried young captain, a 
clever young dandy, bright enough to be 
Avilling to take wisdom in any clothes ; “ I’ve 
been to the colonel ; he agrees Avith me, and 
he’s been to Major Green, and that’s all that 
comes of it. I don’t see what I can do 
further ; if I did-” 

“ Begging your pardon, captain, the men 
AviU be falling sick soon, and dying. They’re 
Aveakened by the climate and being fretted, 
expecting always to git off and never going.” 

“ But Avhat can I do ? Oh, speak out, 
Ave’re off here, alone ! Plave you any idea ? ” 

“ Well, sir, if you was my captain in the 
old —th you’d say to the colonel, ‘ Colonel, 
I’ve remonstrated, now I’m desperate. I’m 
desperate,’ says you. ‘ If there ain’t some¬ 
thing done to-morroAV I’m going to march 
my company out and find a new camp ; and 
you can court-martial me if you please ; I’d 
rather stand a court-martial than see my 
men die ! ’ He’d talk real pleasant at first, 
and so to git in all his facts, and then he’d 
l)laze aAvay. And he’d do it, too, if they 
didn’t listen.” 

The captain gave the sergeant a keen 
glance. “And that’s your notion of dis¬ 
cipline ? ” said he. 

“ There’s a newspaper fellow asking for 
you, captain, this morning; I see him 
a-coming noAV,” Avas the sergeant’s Orphic 
response ; “ but,” he chuckled, Avalking stiffly 
aAvay, “ he’ll do it ; I bet Ave Avon’t be here 
tAvo days longer.” For A\diich glee there Avas 
reason, since inside the hour the captain 
AA’as in the colonel’s tent concluding an 
eloquent picture of his company’s discomfort 
Avith, “ Somebody has to do something. If 









108 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


yon are powerless, colonel, I’m not. If they 
don’t give some assurance of changing the 
camp to-morrow I shall march Company G 
out and pitch a camp myself, and stand a 
court-martial. I would rather risk a court- 
martial than see my men die ; and that’s 
what it has come to ! ” 

The colonel looked the fiery young speaker 
sternly in the eye and said something about 
unsoldierly conduct. 

“ It would be unmanly conduct for me to 
let the boys trusted to me die because I was 
afraid to speak out,” fiung back the captain ; 
“and I know one thing, if I am court- 
martialled the papers ai’e likely to get the 
true story.” 

“You mean the reporter on the Chicago 
papers who is snooping around ? Let me 
advise you to give him a wide berth.” 

“ I mean nothing of the kind, sir. I only 
mean that the thing will not be done in a 
corner.” 

“ Well, well, keep cool, captain ; you’re 
too good a fellow to fling yourself away. 
Wait and see if I can’t get something defi¬ 
nite out of the major to-day.” 

Whereupon the captain departed with 
outward decent gloom and inward premoni¬ 
tions of rejoicing, for when he had hit a 
nail on the head he had eyes to see. And 
the colonel betook himself, hot foot, to the 
pompous soldier in charge of the camp, who 
happened to be a man of fixed belief in 
himself, but, if he feared anything, Avas 
afraid of a neAA^spaper reporter. The colonel 
pive him the facts, sparing no squalid detail, 
indeed adding a feAV picturesque embellish¬ 
ments from his own obserA^ation. He cut 
short the other’s contemptuous criticism of 
boy soldiers, and his comparison with the 
hardships endured during the Civil War Avith 
a curt “ I knoAv they fooled aAvay men’s lives 
then ; that is no reason Avhy Ave should fool 
them away noAv. The men are sickening 
to-day, they Avill be dying to-morrow. I’m 
desperate. If that camp is not changed 
to-morroAV, I shall march my regiment out 
myself and pitch my own camp. You court- 
martial me for it if you like. I would rather 
stand a court-martial, I Avould rather be shot 
by it, than see my men die because I Avas 
afraid to speak out! This camp Ave have 
noAv is murder, as the reportei*s say. I don’t 
Avonder that young fellow from Chicago 
talks hard.” 

“ You’re excited, colonel; you forget 
yourself ! ” 

“ I am desperate, major ; I’m desperate. 
Will you Avalk round the camp Avith me ? ” 


The end of the colloquy was that the 
captain saAv the major and the colonel, and 
told the first lieutenant, Avho told the first 
sergeant, whose name was Spruce. 

“ Captain’s kicked to the colonel, I guess,” 
says Spruce, “and colonel’s kicked to the 
major. That’s the talk. Git ready, boys, 
and pack.” 

True enough the camp AA^as moved the 
very next day. “ I guess captain Avill make 
an officer if he lives and don’t git the big 
head,” Spruce moralised ; “it’s mighty pre¬ 
valent in the Volunteers.” 

The captain Avrote the AAdiole account 
home to one single confidant—his father— 
and him he SAvore to secrecy. The captain’s 
father AA'as the man Avho had committed 
Company G to Spruce’s good offices. He sent 
a cheque to the company and a special box of 
cigars for Spruce. x4.nd Spruce, knoAviug 
nothing of the intermediary, felt a more 
brilliant pride in his adopted toAAm, and 
bragged of its virtues more vehemently than 
ever. The camp Avas not moved soon 
enough. Pneumonia and typhoid fever 
appeared. One by one the boys of the 
regiment sickened, presently one by one 
began to die. 

Then Spruce suggested to the captain, “ I 
guess I’d be more good in the hospital than 
1 am here, captain,” and the captain, who 
AA^as scared, poor lad, and had visions of the 
boys’ mothers demanding the wasted lives of 
their sons at his hands, had his best sergeant 
put on the sick detail. 

If Spruce had been useful in camp he was 
invaluable in hospital. The head surgeon 
leaned on him Avith a jest, and the young 
surgeon in charge Avith a pretence of abuse. 
“ You’ll burst if you don’t AA^ork off your 
steam. Spruce, so out Avith it! What is it 
noAv ? ” In this fashion he really sought 
both information and suggestion. Nor aa'US 
he above being instructed in the innumer¬ 
able delicacies of requisitions by the old 
Regular, and he did not, Avhen requisitions 
AA'Cre unansAvered and supplies appeared in 
unusual form, ask any embarrassing ques¬ 
tions. “ I get ’em from the Red Cross, sir,” 
Avas Spruce’s iiiA^ariable and unquestioned 
formula. 

And the doctor in his reports accounted 
for AA’hat he had received, and complained 
lustily because his requisitions were not 
honoured, even as Spruce had desired. And 
thereby he obtained much credit in the days 
to come. Spruce did not obtain any parti¬ 
cular credit, but he saved a few lives it is 
likely ; and the sick men found him better 


THE HERO OF COMPANY 6, 


109 


than medicine. The captain always handed 
the Committee letters over to him, and 
bought whatever he desired. 

“Captain’s going to distinguish himself. 
Clive him a chance,” thought Spruce ; “ he’s 
got sense ! ” 

And by degrees he began to feel for the 
young Volunteer a reflection of the worship 
which had secretly been offered to a certain 
fat, little, bald-headed captain of the old 
—th. His picture of the great day when 
he should have his triumph quite as dear to 
him, perhaps, as any Koman general’s to the 
Roman, now always included a vision of the 


was, but had the captain write to his married 
sister in the same town, but not in the same 
house. She in sore perplexity wrote to both 
the captain and Spruce, and kept her trunk 
packed expecting a telegram. 

Danvers used to talk of her and of his 
mother, and of his little nephews and nieces 
to Spruce, at first in mere broken sentences— 
this was when he was so ill they expected that 
he might die any day—later in little happy 
snatches of reminiscence. He was perfectly 
aware that he owed his life to Spruce’s 
nursing, and he gave Spruce the same 
admiration which he used to give the 



“\isions of the boys’ mothers demanding the wasted lives of their sons at his hands.” 


captain, slender and straight and bright-eyed, 
at the head of the line ; and he always could 
see the captain, later in the day, presenting 
him to his father : “ Here’s Sergeant Spruce, 
who has coached us all ! ” Pie had over¬ 
heard those very words once said to a girl 
visiting the camp, and they clung to his 
memory with the persistent sweetness of the 
odour of violets. 

To-day he was thinking much more of the 
captain than of young Danvers, although 
Danvers ranked next in his good-will. 
Danvers was a college lad who had begged 
and blustered his mother into letting him 
go. He would not let her know how ill he 


great man who commanded the University 
football team. The social hiatus between 
them closed up insensibly, as it always does 
between men who are in danger and suffering 
together. Danvers knew Spruce’s footfall, 
his thin face would lighten with a smile 
^yhenever the sergeant came in sight. He 
liked the strong, soft touch of his hand, the 
soothing cadence of his voice ; he felt a 
gratitude which he was too boyish to express 
foi’ the comfort of Spruce’s baths and laibbings 
and cheerfulness. The other sick lads had 
a touch of the same feeling for the sergeant. 
As he passed from cot to cot, even the sickest 
man could make some little sign of relief at 


no 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


his return. Spruce’s heart, a simple and 
tender affair,' as a soldier’s is oftener than 
people know, swelled within him, not for the 
first time. 

“Well, I guess I done right to come 
here,” thought he, ‘‘ and I guess all the G 
boys will be out of the woods this week, and 
then I don’t care how soon we git our 
orders.” 

Danvers stopped 
him when he re¬ 
turned. “ I want 
to speak to you. 

Oris,” he said ; and 
a new note in his 
voice turned Spruce 
about abruptly. 

“What’s the 
matter, Dick ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing ; 

I only wanted to 
be sure you’d come 
back and say good¬ 
bye before you got 
off. The regiment’s 
got its orders, you 
know ? ” 

“No!” cried 
Spruce, iie swal¬ 
lowed a little gasp. 

“What are you 
giving me ? ” 

“Oh, it’s straight. 

I heard them talk¬ 
ing. Colonel has 
the order, tlie boys 
are packing to¬ 
day.” 

Spruce’s eyes 
burned: he was 
minded to make 
some exclamation 
of profane joy, but 
his mood fell at the 
sight of the boy’s 
quivering smile. 

“Great, isn’t it?” 
said Danvers. “I 
wish they’d waited two weeks and given us 
fellows a show; but I dare say there 
wouldn’t be any show by that time, the vay 
they are after the dons at Santiago. Can’t 
you get off now, to pack ? But—you’d be 
sure to come back and say good-bye, Cris ? ” 
“ I ain’t off yet,” said Spruce, “ and I ain’t 
too sure I will be. They’re always gittmg 
orders and making an everlasting hustle to 
pack up, and then unpacking. You go to 
sleep.” 


He was about to move away, but Danvert^ 
detained him, saying that he wanted to be 
turned, and as the soldier gently turned him, 
the boy got one of his hands and gave it a 
squeeze. He tried to say something, but 
was barely able to give Spruce a foolish 
smile. “ Spruce, you’re a soldier and a 
gentleman I ” he stammered. He turned 


away Ids head to hide the tears in his eyes. 
But Spruce had seen them. Of course he 
made no sign, stepping away briskly, with a 
little pat on the lean shoulder. 

He came back softly, in a little while. He 
looked at Danvers, who was simulating sleep 
with his dark lashes fallen over red eyelids, 
and he shook his head. During his absence 
he found that the orders were no rumour. 
The regiment was going to Porto Pico, sure 
enough. Spruce stood a moment before he 



“He was conscious that they gazed after him curiously.” 



THE HERO OF COMPANY G. 


Jll 


sat down by Danvers’s side. Jbit lie barely 
Avas seated ere he was on his feet again, in a 
nervous irritation which none had ever seen 
in Spruce. He Avalked to the door of the 
tent and gazed in the same attitude that the 
nurse liad gazed, an hour earlier, at the low 
white streets. Two great buzzards Avere 
flying loAv against the hot, cloudless A-ault of 
blue. 

“ Them boys’ll be all broke up if I go !” 
said Spruce. 

He froAvned and fidgeted. In fact, he 
displayed every sym])toin of a man strug¬ 
gling Avith a fit of furious temper. What 
really Avas buffeting Spruce’s soul Avas not, 
hoAvever, anger, it Avas the temptation of his 
life. 

Spruce had knoAAii feAV temptations—at 
least, he had recognised feAV. His morality 
Avas the lenient, rough-heAvn article AAdiich 
satisfies a soldier’s conscience. He had no 
sc|ueamishness about the sins outside his 
limited category; he fell into them blithely 
and had no remorse Avhen he remembered 
them, AAiierefore he preserved a certain incon¬ 
gruous innocence even in his vices, as has 
happened to many a man before. It is 
perhaps the moral nature’s own defence, and 
keeps untouched and ever fresh little nooks 
and corners of a sinner’s soul, into Avhich the 
conscience may retreat and from which 
sometimes she sallies forth to conquer the 
abandoned territory. AYliat Spruce called 
his duty he had done quite as a matter of 
course. He had not AA^avered any more than 
he Avavered Avhen the Avar bonnets Avere 
swooping down on his old captain’s crumpled 
up form. But this—this Avas different. 
The boys needed him. But if he had stayed 
Avith the boys, there Avas the regiment and 
the company and the captain and the chance 
to distinguish himself and march back in 
glory to his town. 

“ I guess most folks would say I’d ought 
to folloAV the colours,” he thought ; “ raAv 
fellers like them, they need a steady old 
hand. Well, they’ve got Bates” (Bates Avas 
an old Eegular also, of less enterprising 
genius than Spruce, but an admirable 
soldier). “ I s’pose ’’—grudgingly—“ that 
Ihites Avould keep ’em steady. And captain 
can fight, and colonel was a West Point man, 
though he’s been out of the Army ten years, 
fooling with the Millish. I guess they don’t 
need me so aAvful bad, this Aveek ; and these 
here boys- Oh, hang it all! ” 

He walked out of the tent. There Avas a 
little group about a Avagon at which he 
frowned and sighed. 


“ Poor Maxwell! ” he said. Then he 
tossed his head and stamped his foot. 

“ Oh, hang it all! ” said he again betAveen 
his teeth. 

But his face and manner Avere back on 
their old leA^el of good cheer Avhen he bent 
over DanA^ers half an hour later. 

Sa—y, Dick ! ” 

“ Yes, Cris. You’ve come to say good-bye ! 
Well, it’s good luck to you and God bless 
you from every boy here ; and Ave knoAV 
what you’ve done for us, and Ave Avon’t forget 
it, and we’ll all hurry up to get Avell and 
join you ! ” 

Danvers’s Amice AA^as steady enough uoav, 
and a pathetic effort at a cheer came from 
all the cots. Spruce lifted his fist and shook 
it severely. “ You shut up ! All of you. 
You’ll raise your temperatures ! I ain’t 
going, neither. Be quiet. It’s all settled. 
I’ve seen captain, and he wants me to stay 
and see you boys through—all the G boys. 
Then Ave’re all going together. I tell you to 
keep quiet.” 

Dick DaiiAmrs aa'Us keeping quiet enough, 
for one ; he Avas Aviping aAvay the tears that 
rolled down his cheeks. The others in 
general shared his relief in greater or less 
measure, but they Avere too ill to think much 
about anything except themsehms. In some 
Avay, hoAvever, everyone in the tent shoAved 
to Spruce that lie felt that a sacrifice had 
been made. 

‘‘ I knoAA’ you hated it like the deAul, and 
just stayed for fear some of your precious 
chickens Avould come to mischief if they got 
off from under your Avings, you old hen ! ” 
Avas Dick’s tribute ; “ and I knoAV Avhy you 
Avent into town yesterday Avhen the boys 
Avent off. It is rough, Cris, and that’s the 
truth ! ” 

“ Oh, it’s only putting off things a bit. 
Captain told me so himself,” said Spruce, 
very light and airy. But his heart Avas sore. 
The G boys understood ; he AA'asn’t so sure 
that all the others did understand. He 
caught his name on one gossiping group’s 
lips, and Avas conscious that they gazed after 
him curiously. “ Wonder if I’m scared, that 
I stayed home, I guess,” he muttered, being 
a sensitive felloAV, like all A^ain men. “ I Avish 
they’d seen the things I’Am been in ! 
Confound ’em ! ” 

The men really Avere discussing his very 
Indian experiences and admiring him in 
their boyish hearts. But he was unluckily 
out of earshot. Unluckily, also, he Avas not 
out of earshot Avhen a lieutenant of another 
regiment, who had had a difference about 




112 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


right of way with Spruce’s captain and been 
worsted by Spruce’s knowledge of military 
traditions, freed his mind about that “ bump¬ 
tious Regular who was so keen to fight, but 
(he noticed) was hanging on to his sick 
detail now the regiment had a chance to see 
a few Spaniards.” Spruce, in his properly 
buttoned uniform, his face red with the heat 
of something of the words, saluted rigorously 
and went by, not a muscle twitching. All 
the while he was thinking, “I’m glad he 
don’t belong to my town ! God, if anybody 
was to write them things about me ! ” 

By this time the town was not only his 
town, but he was sure that he was the figure 
in the conversation of the place. Thus his 
anxiety of mind increased daily. He kept it 
from his charges, who grew stronger all the 
week and the next, and he read such papers 
as drifted out to the camp and such shreds 
of news about the fighting with frantic 
interest. Danvers was able to sit up at the 
end of three weeks ; most of the boys were 
further along, walking about the wards or 
gone back to their regiment. 

“ You get out, Cris,” said Danvers. “ We 
all know you’re on your head with aching to 
go. We’re all right, and I’m off home on 
furlough to-morrow. I’ll get straightened 
out there quicker and be after you next 
week, see if I don’t! I knew you’d be 
hanging on, so I won’t give you the excuse. 
My sister’s coming to-morrow.” 

“ Really, Dick ? ” gasped Spruce ; “ and 
you—you’re sure the other boys are so’s I 
can leave ? ” 

“ AVell, you know there are going to be 
some women from the Red Cross last of the 
week—oh, by the time we are all out of it 
this will be a swell hospital, with all the 
luxuries ! Spruce, go, and don’t get hurt oi¬ 
l’ll murder you ! ” 

Spruce giggled like a happy girl. He was 
on his way to put in his application to join 
his regiment the next day, after Dick 
Danvers’s sister had arrived, when something 
happened. He did not exactly know him¬ 
self, until he felt the water on his forehead 
and tried to lift himself up from the sand, 
catching the arm of the surgeon-in-chief. 
“ Sunstroke, doctor ? ” he whispered. 

“ Just fainted,” the surgeon answered 
cheerfully; “ you’ve been overdoing it. 

Spruce, in this heat. Be careful.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing, sir,” Spruce grinned 
back ; “ had it lots of times, only not so bad. 
All the boys git giddy heads.” 

Somehow the ready words faltered off his 
tongue ; the surgeon had been fumbling at 


his blouse, under the pretext of opening it 
for air ; he was looking in a queer, intent 
way at Spruce’s chest. Of a sudden the eyes 
of doctor and soldier, who had been nurse, 
met and challenged each other. There was 
a dumb terror in the soldier’s eyes, a grave 
pity in the surgeon’s. 

“ I seen them spots yesterday,” said Spruce 
slowly, in a toneless voice, “ but I wouldn’t 
believe they were typhoid spots, nor they 
ain’t! ” 

“ You get inside and get a drink. Spruce, 
and go to bed,” said the doctor. “ Of course 
I’m not certain, but as good a nurse as you 
knows that it isn’t safe to try to bluff 
typhoid fever ! ” 

By this time Spruce was on his feet, able 
to salute with his reply, “That’s all right, 
major; but—I got to keep up till Danvers 
gits off with his folks, or he’d be kicking 
and want to stay. Jest let me see him oft*, 
and I’ll go straight to bed.” 

“ Ho walking about, mind, though,” said 
the doctor, not well pleased, yet knowing 
enough of the two men to perceive the point 
of the argument. 

Spruce saw Danvers off, with a joke and a 
grin and an awkward bow for Danvers’s 
sister. Then he went back to the hospital 
and went to bed, having written his aunt’s 
address on a prescription pad (one of his 
acquirements in his foraging trips), with a 
remarkably spelled request that his pay be 
sent her and his other property be given his 
friend, R. E. Danvers, to divide among his 
friends, giving the captain first choice. 

“Lots of folk die of typhoid fever,” he 
remarked, quite easily, “and it don’t hurt 
to be ready. I feel like I was in for a bad 
time, and I ain’t stuck on the nursing here a 
little bit.” 

Before the week was out he recognised as 
well as the doctors that he was a very sick 
man. 

“ If you’d only gone off with your regi¬ 
ment three weeks ago,” the doctor growled 
one day, “ you’d have missed this. Spruce ! ” 

“ That’s all right,” said Spruce, “ but some 
of the boys are home that wouldn’t be, 
maybe. I guess it’s all right. Only I wish 
you’d write to the old town and tell the 
Committee I done my duty. I can’t be a 
credit to the company, but I done my duty, 
though I expect there’s folk in town may 
think I was rualingering.” 

“ Stop talking ! ” commanded the doctor. 
“ Did you know the women are coming to¬ 
morrow, and you are to have a nurse of your 
own here ? ” 


THE HERO OF COMPANY 0. 


113 



“ His hand tightened on hers.” 

“Time,” said Spruce. “If my 
town had had its wa,y they’d have 
been here long ago. Ever been in 
my town, major ? ” 

“ No. Good-bye, Spruce, keep 
quiet.” 

“ It’s the bulliest town in the 
country and the prettiest. And when G 
Company goes back—oh. Lord, I won’t be 
with them.” 

The surgeon’s hand on his shoulder pre¬ 
vented the movement which he would have 
made, and he apologised. “ I didn’t mean 
to do that! Moving’s so bad. Tell you. I’d 
a time, keeping the boys still ; they would 
turn when they got a little off ! Say, I got 


em’s gone. 
We all come 
from the same 
city. It’s an 
awful pretty town. 
I got a lot of friends 
there that maybe 
don’t take it in why 
I’m liere ’stead of with 
my regiment, with the old man. I got a 
good reason. Only I can’t remember it 
now.” 

The captain’s father stood outside the 
telegraph office, in Spruce’s town. Beside 
him was the cliairman of the Relief Com¬ 
mittee. 

“ Too bad, about that Regular,” said the 
chairmau. “Spruce—isn’t that his name? 


to talk, major ; something’s broke loose in 
me and I got to talk. I don’t want to, 
I just got to.” 

AVhen the nurse came he was so 
light-headed to have no control 
of his words ; yet quite able to 
recognise her and welcome 
her with an apologetic 
politeness. 

“ I’d have had some 
lemonade for you if I’d 
been up myself, ma’am. 
We’re glad to see you. 
All the G boys are 
convalescing. Most of 




114 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


One of the boys telegraphed he couldn’t live 
through the day. Better have him brought 
here for the funeral, 1 guess; he’s been very 
faithful. Young Danvers wanted to go 
right down to Florida ; but he had a relapse 
after he got home, and he’s flat on his 
back.” 

‘‘ I heard,” said the captain’s father. 
“ I’ve just telegraphed, on my own responsi¬ 
bility, for them to send him here. It won’t 
make any difference to him, poor fellow, but 
we owe it to him. I wish we could do 
something that would help him ; but I don’t 
see anything.” 

“We have told them to spare no expense, 
and he’s got plenty of money. No, you have 
done everything. Well, good-bye; remember 
me to the captain ; we’re all proud of him.” 

The captain’s -father thanked him with 
rather an absent air. 

“I wish we could do something for that 
fellow,” he was thinking. “ I don’t suppose 

a message to him would- When a 

fellow’s dying, messages are nonsense. It’s a 
bit of sentiment ; I don’t care. I’ll do it! ” 
He turned and went back ijito the office. 

“ I am afraid there is not a chance,” said 
the doctor ; “too bad. He was a good 
fellow. Well, you can give him all the 
morphine he needs. And strychnine. Though 
he’s past strychnine, I fear. Morphine’s the 
one chance. And that’s mighty little.” 

“ He talked about wanting to see you,” 
said the nurse. She had a sweet voice, 
plainly a lady’s voice ; and her slim figure in 
the blue-striped gown and white apron had 
a lady’s grace. Her face was not handsome, 
nor was it very young, but it had a touch of 
her voice’s sweetness. The doctor found 
himself glad to look at her, and forgetting 
his patients in his interest in the nurse. 

“ Oh, yes ”— he roused himself — “ I’ll 
look round later. I suppose he is delirious.” 

“ Not so much that he does not recognise 


us. He talks all the time of Ills town, poof 
fellow ; and seems to want to ]ia\’e them 
understand that he hasn’t neglected his duty. 
He only once has spoken of any relations. 
It’s all the town, and the captain, and Danvers 
making it riglit there. And the boys going 
back. I suppose he has lived there all his 
life and-” 

‘•Not a bit of it Dcinvers told me he 
merely enlisted from there. But they are 
making a great time over him. Telegraphed 
to have his body sent tliere ; and here’s 
another telegram. See.” 

“ I’ll let him see,” said the nurse, taking 
it ; “ may I, doctor ? ” 

“ Yes, but not the first part about sending 
him back. That’s a little too previous.” 

The nurse’s touch roused Spruce. 

“ Dick,” he murmured. “ Dick, you tell 
the folk I couldn’t go with the regiment, 
you know why.” 

“'They know why, too. Here’s a telegram 
from your captain’s father, ‘ Tell Spruce he 
is the hero of Company G.’ ” 

“ Read it again.” 

She read it. His hand tiglitened on hers. ' 
Her trained eyes were on his face. 

“ xiin’t it the—the bulliest town ? I wish 
I’d enough money to go back ; but, you see, 
my folk got to have my pay. But I— 
wisht-” 

Her eyes, not a nurse’s eyes now, but a 
Avoman’s, sought the doctor’s in a glance of 
question and appeal. He nodded. 

Her sAveet voice said, “ And the toAvn has 
telegraphed that no expense must be spared 
to cure you, but if yon don’t recover yon are 
to go back to them.” 

Spruce drew a long, ecstatic sigh. “ Oh, 
didn’t I tell you ? Ain’t it the bulliest 
tOAvn ? ” 

A minute later he murmured, “Thank 
you, Dick,” and, still holding the nurse’s 
hand. Spruce Avent to seek his tOAvn. 












THE EDITOR’S SCRAP-BOOK. 


At the present moment, when the air is full of 
the records of brave soldiers and brave deeds, it is 
interesting to recall an amusing story of Lord 
Panmure, in connection with the Crimean war. 
Her Majesty had been presenting the medals to 
the returned heroes, and the Hon. Mrs. Norton, 
with natural feminine curiosity, was interrogating 
Lord Panmure on the subject. 

“Was the Queen much touched?” she in¬ 
quired. 

“ Bless my soul, no! ” replied his imperturbable 
Lordship. “ She had a brass railing before her, so 
that no one could touch her.” 

“But,” persisted Mrs. Norton, “ what I mean is, 
was she moved ? ” 

“ Moved?” ejaculated Lord Panmure, “why, she 
had no occasion to move.” And then the lady 
gave it up in despair. 


Mrs. Vicar : Now, I want you to promise 
you’ll come to church next Sunday, Mrs. Grubbins ; 
we have a beautiful new organ, and I shall want 
you to tell me what you think of it. 

Mrs. Grubbins: Oh, no! Indeed I couldn’t. 
I never trouble myself with the like of they things. 
You see I ar’irt no sort of good at dancin’. 



Jones : Have you heard the news about 
Smith ? 

Brown ; No 1 what is it? 

Jones: He died this morning—quite suddenly, 
I understand. 

Brown : I’hat’s just like Smith. He was the 
most impulsive man 1 ever met! 



REASSURING. 


The New Rector (paying his first call) : I suppose your dog is quiet, my little man? 
boN OF THE House : Oh, come in ; don’t be ’fraid. I’ll lick him if he collars hold of you i 

115 






















116 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 



He looked a hard¬ 
ened member of the 
begging fraternity and 
had realised that ad¬ 
vantages might accrue 
from proclaiming that 
a connecting link 
existed between his 
wooden leg and the 
I'l-ansvaal war. He 
bravely stumped his 
way to a sympathetic- 
looking front door and 
knocked. When it was 
opened by a brisk- 
looking woman, he be¬ 
gan in a professional 
whine, “ If you please, 
mum, 1 lost my 
leg-” 

“ Well, you didn’t 
lose it here,” she 
promptly interpolated. 
And next moment he 
found himself gazing 
meditatively at the 
closed door. 


KXPERIKNTIA DOCET. 

Customer : Is that the razor you shaved nie with last time ? 

Barber ; Yes, sir. 

Customer : Chloroform, please! 

“Whatever became of that plain Jenkins 
girl ? ” asked the man who had been away for a 
long time—“Maggie Jenkins, you know—the 
one with a face like a di’eam that makes you glad 
it wasn’t so when you wake up ? ” 

“ Maggie Jenkins ? ” replied the old friend. “ Oh, 

[ married her. Come in. Maggie, here’s some¬ 
body wants to see you.” 


An intelligent-look¬ 
ing boy walked into a 
grocer’s shop the other 
day, and, reading from 
a paper, said— 

“I want six pounds 
of sugar at 2ld. a 
pound.” 

“Yes,” said the shop¬ 
man, “ that will be one 
and three halfpence.” 

“Eleven pounds of 
rice at l^d. a pound.” 

“ One and fourpence 
ha fpenny,” com¬ 
mented the grocer. 

“ Four p mnds of tea 
at Is. 8c?. a pound.” 

“ Six and eight.” 

And so he continued: 
“Five pounds of coffee at Is. 10c?., 7 tins of milk 
at 5^0?., 4 tins of tomatoes at G^c?., 8 tins of 
sardines at Is. 1-^c?.” 

The shopman made out the bill and handed it 
to the lad, saying, “Did your mother send the 
money, or does she want them entered ? ” 

“ My mother didn’t send me at all,” said the 
boy, seizing hold of the bill. “ It’s my arithmetic 
lesson, and I had to get it done somehow.” 


Sympathetic-looking Lady : But why do 
you beg ? 

Disreputable One: ’Cause I can’t get no work, 
mum, and my wife’s a widder with five children, 
and they looks to me for support. 


Every wminan under thirty believes she is an 
actress, and every actress believes she is under 
thirty. 

























































Set a tTbiet— 

“ In certain rural districts beloved of the cyclist it has been found necessary to institute a police force mounted 
on good machines, in order to cope with the dangers to the community arising from scorching Jind reckless riding. 
— Vide daily papers, 






118 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


A MAN went into an inn and asked for a loaf 
of bread. When this was served he said, “ Now 
take this back, and give me a glass of ale instead ” 
When he had drank the ale he turned to leave, 
but was called back by the landlord. 

“ What is the matter ? ” urbanely asked the 
stranger. 

“Pay me for the ale,” demanded the landlord. 

“But I gave you the loaf for it,” replied the 
stranger. 

“ Then pay for the loaf.” 

“Not I,” was the response; “for you still have 
it.” And the stranger departed on his way. 





He flew up the steps of the suburban station and 
threw himself into the last carriage as the train 
moved off. 

“ Near thing, that,” he gasped to the man in 
the opposite corner. “ Mustn’t do it too often— 
bad for the heart.” 

The other allowed that it was more hygienic to 
be punctual, even if the trains weren’t. 

“But that’s just what surprises me,” pursued 
the breathless one. “ The trains are so con¬ 
foundedly punctual. This line, you know, has a 
bad name, and till I came out to live here, a 
couple of months ago, 1 believed every word that 
was said against it. 
Now, will you be¬ 
lieve me, every morn¬ 
ing for the past six 
weeks this train has 
been not only punc¬ 
tual to the minute, 
but sometimes even 
before its time.” 

“ You don’t say 
soV” 

“ Yes, I do. 1 must 
really write to the 
papers about it. Now, 
this t r a i n—t h e 

9.15-” 

“ I beg your par¬ 
don.” 

“Eh? What? Isn’t 
this the 9.15 ? ” 

“No. This is the 
8.57.” 


A TRIFLE HAZY. 

Intelligent Rustic : They tells me as ’ow ’Enery’s boy ’as got wounded in the 
Transvaal. 

Mrs. Gummins ; Lor’ a mussey me ! And what part of ’im might that be? 


“ And have you 
ever yet obtained any 
reward for merit at 
your school ? ” in¬ 
quired the austere 
grandparent. 

“ Rather,” said the 
callous grandson. 
“ My teacher gives 
me a lickin’ most 
every day, and says 
I merit two.” 


'^rHERE are some words in the French language 
which possess no corresponding rhyme. A young 
lady asked a poet if he could suggest a word 
rhynning with coiffe (a lady’s head-dress). “ That 
is impossible, madam; there is none. For what 
belongs to a lady’s head has neither rhyme nor 
reason'^ 



Customer : 1 say, waitei’, this steak is tenlbly 
burned. 

Waiter: That’s true, sir; I’m only glad it 
ain’t no wuss. There’s a gent over there as ’as 
got one simply broiled to a cinder. 


Importunate Irishman: I s’pose you don’t 
happen to have such a thing as an old pair of 
trousers handy, have yer, sir? 

Business Man: No, indeed; I don’t keep my 
wardrobe in my counting-house. 

IMPOR^'UNATE IRISHMAN : Well, if you’ll gi’ me 
5 ^er private address. I’ll make so bold as to call in 
the morning for the old pair ye’ve got on. 



The Longest Reign in the History of the 
World.—The deluge. 













B Serious 2)ilemma. 

Dulcih : Poor I'jiid is in a terrible dilemma over lier three soldier suitors. 

IMaisik : How is that ? 

Dulcie: Because she is afraid to accept either one of the n, lest the others might get promotion before him 









120 


THE WINDSOn MAGAZINE. 



He was gazing with dreamy eyes into the 
far-on-ahead. “ Ah, my darling ! ” he murmured, 
“ what matters it that sorrow and trouble must of 
necessity be lurking in the unknown future ? 
While I am with you I think of nought but the 
present—the beautiful, superb present.” 

“ So do I, dearest,” she replied; “ but you’ll take 
me with you when you buy it, won’t you ? Men 
have such queer taste in rings! ” 


THE REASON WHY. 

Auntie : Do you like school, 
Tommy? 

Tommy : 1 like Sunday-school best. 
Auntie : That’s a good little boy. 
And why do you like Sunday-school 
best ? 

Tommy : ’Cause it only comes once 
a week. 


The pencil heaved a weary sigh 
And murmured to the pen : 

I’ve never felt so out of sorts 
5ince—oh, I don’t know when ! 

‘ The penknife treats me shamefullj'. 

It cuts me in the street, 

And really is extremely sharp 
Whene’er we chance to meet. 

‘ And when 1 broke the other day 
Beneath its bitter stroke, 

It said it didn’t see the point. 

No more did 1 the Joke ! 

‘With many troubles I’m depressed. 

My heart feels just like lead.” 

The pen mopped up an inky tear: 

” 1 weep for you,” it said. 

The Cleveland Plain Dealer. 































































































XLbc ©ID ©rcbart). 

From an Etching by A. Hugh Fisher. 










A DANISH NEWLYN. 

By a. E. Fletcheh. 


W ITHIN the shadow of the tall light¬ 
house at tlie point of the narrow 
peninsula stretching out into the 
sea where the waters of the Kattegat and 
Skagerak meet, lies the quaint little township 
of Skagen, the Ultima TJiuJe of Denmark. 
Though not so picturesque as some of tlie 
Danisli villages wliicli nestle amongst lovely 
lake and upland scenery further south, 


are deposits from the great clouds of light 
sand driven northward from the western 
coast before the North Sea’s gales. Up to a 
time within the memory of men still living, 
all efforts to arrest the shifting of these great 
sand-drifts failed, and Skagen in times past 
was sometimes threatened with being buried 
alive by them. In a terrible visitation of 
the winds years ago the old parish church. 



“WIM. SIIK CLEAIl TIIK POINT?” BY MICIIAKB ANCIIKB. 


Skagen has nevertheless a charm of its own. 
The level country round it is bounded on 
the seaboard by long ridges of sand-dunes 
whose almost snowy whiteness throws up 
sharply the colours of their environment of 
blue ocean, green meadows, and red-roofed 
cottages and farmsteads. These long tracts 
of sand-dunes bear silent witness to the 
energy and skill with which the Danes have 
contended with the forces of Nature. They 
Jui.v, 1000. 


which is said to have been built l)y Scottish 
fishermen who fixupiented the Skagen coast 
in the fifteentli century, was thus liuried, 
excepting the upper part of the tower, which 
is all that can now be seen of it. The Danes, 
however, have now discovered a grass, locally 
known as “ inarchalm,” which will grow upon 
the dunes, shooting down its roots to a great 
depth and thus binding the grains together. 
When the grass has grown for a certain time 

jc 2 


123 



THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


124 



states of the tide there is here 
perfectly safe and delicious 
hatliiiig. Our reproduction 
of Kroyer’s clever picture, 
“ Children Bathing,” will give 
the reader an idea of what a 
dip in the sea means at Shagen. 

Til ere is just a danger that 
Shagen may be spoiled by the 
excursionist, for it is now pos¬ 
sible to get there by railway, 
and a fine hotel in the old Norse 
style, commanding a splendid 
sea view, has just been built. 
Shagen, however, has nothing 
in common with the conven¬ 
tional watering-place beloved of 
the mere tripper. The Shagen 
folh rather pride themselves on 
being the butt of an old Danish 
saying that they are beyond the 
confines of civilisation. They 
are an honest, simple, and primi¬ 
tive people. The hotel stands 
amongst the sand-dunes in a 
rather desolate spot at consider¬ 
able distance from the village, 
and would no donbt be voted 
a dull place by the Cochney 
holiday-maher, for whom life 
wonhrnot be worth living even 

PETKll SICVKIIIX KliOYKIl. I’OKTUAIT OK lIIMSKIvK. at tllC Seaslde V ltllOllt tllO liclp Of 

nigger minstrels, lion (iomiques, 
the nature of the sands is so far cliiinged tliiit Aunt Sallysand merry-go-rounds. This 

firs can be made to grow upon them. new hotel, however, equally with the old 

Thousands of acres 
of barren sand have ■ 
thus been converted 
into forest, and 
Denmark has en- | 
larged the borders i 
of her small terri- . 
tory by a policy of 
expansion by the , 
spade, which com- j 
pensates her to some 
extent for her loss 
of territory by the 
sword. That part 
of the Skagen beach 
washed by the tides 
at the base of the 
sand-dunes is hard 
and smooth, and 
here, at low water, 
the cyclist may spin 
along for miles to 
the murmur of the 

sea, while at all two kisiiehmen. by michael ancher. 









































A HERRING CATCH. By P. S. Kroyer. 






120 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



CIIII^DHKN P.ATlIINf;, SKAGKX HEACII. IJY P. S. KHOYEK 


hostelry which is one of the attrcictioiis of 
Skagen village, is a delightful resort for 
those who do not care to have their quietude 
broken otherwise than by the minstrelsy of 
rolling tides, the Avhistle of the winds, and 
the screech of sea-birds. I do not think, 
therefore, that, although Skagen has now been 
made accessible to the nnconventional tourist, 
it is likely to lose its unique character. 

For the artist and man of letters this 
quaint seaboard parish is never likely to 


lose its charm. Not only has Nature here 
as a colourist done some of her best work, 
producing atmospheric efPects of rare rich¬ 
ness and variety, but she has peopled the 
place with as sturdy a race of men as ever 
braved the hurricane or gave inspiration 
to bards of heroic song. We give some 
illustrations of types of this hardy race, 
descendants of the dauntless Norsemen who, 
undei* Hengist and Horsa, sent the expedi¬ 
tion to found the first Norse settlement on 



THE NORTHERNMOST I'OINT OF JUTLAND. 










A DANISH NEWLYN, 


127 


our shores. With the exception of the new 
hotel, to which I have already referred, 
Skagen has no buildings of any pretension 
to architectural beauty, but it contains one 
public monument which is both a work of 
art and an object of inspiring interest. It 
is a memorial raised by public subscription to 
Lars Kruse and his companions, the brave 
captain and crew of the Skagen lifeboat, 
that foundered in a gale on Christmas Day, 
18G2. Kruse and his men on that fatal day 
put out to the rescue of the crew of the 
lJa])hne^ a JK’itish vessel wrecked on the 
sand-reef off Skagen Point. Time after 


Hans Christian Jensen Bagh, the present 
captain of the lifeboat. I called upon him 
with a Danish friend who acted as inter¬ 
preter, and had a long chat with him. He 
is a tall, well-built man, with a kindly, 
weather-beaten face, and eyes finely moulded 
by long looking out on far horizons. As 
some three hundred vessels pass the lightship 
off Skagen Point every day, and as near that 
lightship there is a very dangerous reef, the 
services of the Skagen lifeboatmen are more 
often needed here than elsewhere on the 
Danish coast. Captain Bagh, who has been 
twenty-two years in command of the boat. 



SKACEX KISIIKRMEN RETURNING HOME. RY MK IIAEF- ANCHER. 


time the brave fellows ])ulled off to the 
wreck, and succeeded in taking off the whole 
crew. Oil returning for the last time the 
boat capsized, and the women of Skagen 
“ were weeping and wringing their hands 
for tliose wlio will never come back to the 
town.” Lars Kruse is the suliject of a fine 
ballad by Holger Dracliinann, Denmark’s 
most popular poet, a man of striking per¬ 
sonality, whom I liad the good fortune to 
meet at the house of Herr Kroyer, when I 
was in Skagen a short time ago. Drachmann 
is also a painter of considerable merit. 

Another fine type of Jutland fishermen is 


has a splendid record, and has received 
decorations and other acknowledgments of 
his services from the governments of most 
of the maritime nations of the world. He 
was also awarded a diploma for a set of 
fishing-nets at tlie International Fisheries 
Exhibition held in London in 1880. The 
distinction he prizes most, however, is the 
medal of a Danisli order for distinguished 
service (the Order of Dannebrog), awarded 
to him by King Christian for the rescue of 
the crew of an English brig during a gale 
of such violence that, although the crew was 
got off the wreck, it was impossible to take 



128 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




THE SKAGKX LTKEBOAT. 

them ashore. Captain Bagh so skilfully 
managed the boat that he was able to keep 
her afloat until a passing steamer came to his 
rescue. For this service Captain Bagh and 
his men received from England a gift of one 
pound each—a rather poor acknowledgment, 

I think, of the heroic conduct of these 
Danish flshermen by a nation which prides 
itself both on its wealth and its generosity. 
Possibly the real wortli of the service 
rendered by Captain Bagh and his crew on 
this occasion was not rightly represented to 
the Board of Trade. The lifeboat service is 
managed much better in Denmark than in 
England. In Denmark it is organised by 
the State, but in England it is left to 
voluntary effort. It' has been charged 
against our British method that it tempts 
our brave lifeboatmen sometimes to think 
as much of saving 
cargo as saving life, 
as they share in 
the salvage of 
wrecked vessels. In 
Denmark the sole 
object of the life¬ 
boat service is to 
save life. The 
rocket apparatus as 
well as the li feboats 
are provided by the 
State, and the crews, 
selected from ex¬ 
perienced flsher¬ 
men, are paid a 
fixed sum per head 
each time the boats 
put out. The Ska- 
gen lifeboatmen re¬ 
ceive eight kroner 
for each call. When 


the boat passes over 
a submerged reef, 
known as the 
Revler, the men 
receive twelve 
kroner each. They 
are not allowed to 
make any claim for 
salvage. 

Like our own de¬ 
lightful fishing vil¬ 
lage of Newlyn, on 
the Cornish coast, 
which Mr. Cotch, 
Mr. Stanhope 
Forbes, and the 
rest of the Newlyn 
brotherhood have 
made famous, Skagen and its wild surround¬ 
ings have given inspiration to a school of 
painters. Three of Denmark’s most famous 
artists, Peter Severin Kroyer, Michael 
Peter Ancher, and his wife, have made 
Skagen their home, and other artists, not 
only from Denmark, but from Norway and 
Sweden, have chosen it from time to time as 
their headquarters. Kroyer is the most 
famous of this group, whose portraits, 
painted by him, adorn the walls of the 
dining-room of the old village- inn, where 
they were wont to meet at “the feast of 
reason and flow of soul.” Kroyer is the 
son of a well-known Danish naturalist, a 
professor in the University of Copenhagen 
and author of some important scientific 
works. The painter was born in 1851 and 
received his early training at the Copenhagen 


FIRING A ROCKET AT SKAGEN. 





A BAiVISff iVI/WLFA^. 


129 



STUANDKI). BY ANTON .MKLBVK. 


Academy of Art, wliicli he left in 1<S70. lie 
was first brought into public notice by a 
picture which he exhibited iii tlie following 
year. He continued to paint with success 
until 1878, when he decided to conpdete his 
studies abroad. He spent a considerable 


time in Paris, including one year in the 
studio of M. Ilonnat, and afterwards studied 
in Italy and Spain. He has been awarded 
gold medals at various foreign exhibitions, 
including that of the Paris Salon and the 
International Art Exhibition at the Crystal 



FISIIKRMKN ON THE SKAGEN PEACH ■ NIGHT- PV !’• KROYER. 









130 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


Palace in 1882. Kroyer is now generally 
regarded as the head of the new school of 
Danish Painters—that is to say, the school 
which has broken with the Eckersberg 
tradition which dominated Danish art almost 
up to the time of the earliest efforts of 
Kroyer and his contemporaries. Eckersberg, 
though lie liad not the genius of his pupil 
Marstrand, the most famous of Denmark’s 
painters, Avas yet tlie real founder of the old 
national school of Danish iVrt. He flourished 
in the earlier half of the century, after study¬ 
ing for some years in DaAdd’s studio in Paris. 


modern French School.” Before, hoAA^eA^er, 
AA^hat Lange calls the abrupt break in the 
deA^elopment of Danish national art made 
by Kroyer, Toxen, and others, some of the 
older Danish marine painters did much to 
prove that Eckersberg and his pupils had 
not marked the limits of the evolution of 
art. One of the most gifted of tliese painters, 
who stands midAvay betAveen Eckersberg and 
the Skagen School, Avas Anton Melbye, of 
Avhose fine picture, “ Stranded,” we give an 
illustration. 

The abandonment of the traditions of the 



TAKING 'I’lIK LIFEBOAT OVER THE DENES. BY MK’IIAEI. ANCIIEB. 


The Eckersberg School AA^as bound to pass 
into tlie region of liistory before the later 
European movements. It Avas incapable of 
solving the problems arising out of the noAV 
interpretation of Life and Nature. As 
Julius Lange, the Avell-kuoAvn Danish art 
critic and Avriter, points out, ‘‘ Kichness and 
brilliancy of colouring, trutlifnl rendering of 
picturesque phenomena, and a thoroughly 
realistic interpretation of human life : these 
demand light, air. Nature—in short, all the 
characteristics displayed Avith such brilliant 
ability by the powerful and flourishing 


older Danish masters for those of modern 
foreign art Avas a departure made not exclu¬ 
sively by Danish painters, but also l)y the 
younger sculptors aaIio Avere not content to 
folloAv too devoutly in the steps even of the 
incomparable ThorA'aldsen. This, liOAA^eA^er, 
AA-as but a transition. The men aaJio had 
been brought under the influence of the 
foreign schools Avere ncA'Cr in serious danger 
of producing merely imitative Avork destitute 
of originality and national characteristics. 
“ If the artists did not intend to leave their 
own country altogether.” says Lange. “ the 




THE LIFEBOAT TO THE RESCUE. By L. Toxen. 







132 


THE WhhjSOR MAGAZINE. 


claims of their home 
would return in full 
force, although on a 
somewhat modified 
technical basis. Eealism, 
above all tilings, de¬ 
mands that the objects 
shall be before one’s 
eyes, that they may be 
familiarly and inti¬ 
mately h andled. Realism 
at a distance is an 
impossibility. Kroyer, 
wlio had already pro¬ 
duced scenes from the 
Danish coast-life and 
fish erf oiks’ doings, now 
returned to this brancli 
of painting with re¬ 
newed vigour and suc¬ 
cess. Tliis style had 
great weight with 
Michael Anclier, Avho 
has rendered with great 
breadth of style tlie Danish seaman ; the 
same may be said of his wife Anna Anclier. 
Both had carried on their studies principally 
at home, as had Yiggo Johansen and Julius 
Paulsen, painters of such great natural 
ability that they rose to the standard of 


foreign art with but 
little study in its 
schools.” Michael Peter 
Anclier was born in 
1849, on the rocky 
island of Bornholm, in 
the Baltic. His parents, 
though poor, were in¬ 
telligent and well edu¬ 
cated, as, indeed, are 
most of the Danish 
peasantry. They were 
ambitious of making a 
student of their son, 
whom they were c|uick 
to perceive had been 
endowed by Nature 
Avith more than average 
ability. They had not 
the means, hoAvever, to 
gratify this praise- 
Avorthy ambition, for at 
that time Denmark had 
not fully developed the 
splendid system of education AARich she has 
noAv placed Avithin the reach of the humblest 
of her citizens. Disappointed of the hope 
of becoming a student of the University, 
Michael had to submit to the drudgery of a 
clerkship in the office of a great landowner. 



CAPTAIX OF THE SKA(iEN LIFEHOAT. 






'i| 




THE DINING-ROOM OF THE OLD SKAGEN HOTEL. 























133 




A DAiViSJl iVmvLYiV. 


iVIEMORIAL TO liAUS ANDERSEN KRUSE. 

Here, however, lie was fortunate enough to 
make the acquaintance of some travelling 
artists, from whom he caught the inspiration 
that decided his future career. In 1871 he 
was able to enter the Academy of Arts at 
Copenhagen, where he studied 
for four years. He made his 
dolnd at the yearly exhihition 
of the Copenhagen Academy 
in 1874, and two years later 
he achieved a marked success 
with his picture of a scene 
from fisher-life. In 1880 he 
was awarded the highest hon¬ 
ours of the Academy of Arts 
both at Copenhagen and Ber¬ 
lin, by his great picture, “Will 
She Clear the Point ? ” This 
fine piece of realistic painting 
will probably ensure his en¬ 
during fame. It has been 
secured for the Danish nation, 
and hangs amongst the master¬ 
pieces of modern Danish art 
in the National Grallery at 
Copenhagen. The picture re 
presents a group of fishermen 
watchiug the efforts of a vessel 
to escape shipwreck on the 
dangerous reef of wdiich I have 
already spoken. In certain 
states of the wdnd vessels some¬ 
times beat about for days to 


avoid this dangerous point if they cannot 
clear it. To fail in the attempt to clear it 
means that the services of the Skagen life¬ 
boat will be needed. There is another very 
fine picture of Anchor’s, “ Taking the Life¬ 
boat Over the Sand-dunes,” of which we 
likewise give an illustration. Madame Ancher 
is also a fine painter. She received her first 
training from her husband. 

Kroyer and Ancher live near to each other 
in picturesque bungalows, bowered in trees, 
and built in the cosy, unpretentious Danish 
style. Kroyer makes a spacious old out¬ 
house do duty for a studio. He spread out 
for me on the floor of this interesting 
sanctum several newly finished and partly 
finished sea-pieces of great power and 
snggestiveness. He has a wonderful eye for 
distance, and wonderful skill in painting 
atmospheric effects. I confess, however, 
that, much as I admire Kroyer’s pictures, I 
prefer Anclier’s, whose subjects, if not the 
treatment of them, appeal to my poor 
imagination with greater force. I am not 
an art critic, and therefore have no reputa¬ 
tion to risk in giving expression to this 
heretical preference. After the kind way in 
which both artists received me, it is perhaps a 
little ungracious to speak of preference for one 
over the" other. Both are strong and inspir¬ 
ing personalities, possessing the modesty of 







THE WrXDSOn MAGAZINE. 


]:U 



SANI)-I)rxi;s AND MOHTHOUSK AT SKACKN. 


genius tind tlie kindly cluiracfceristics wliicli 
make tliein honoured and beloN'ed l)y the 
humble fish erf oik amongst whom they live. 
Both, too, have had the good fortune to be 
married to clever and l)eautifnl women. It 
has been objected to the paintings of these 
artists that they cannot claim to rank with 
the highest order of works of art, as they 
are too realistic of wliat is, after all, l)ut a 


rough phase of life in the work-a-day world. 
They are not, I am told, suggestive enough 
of high ideals. To tliis I reply that the 
more I study the works of Kroyer and 
x\ncher—the more I gaze upon the sturdy 
forms and look into the calm, beautiful, 
heroic faces they have grouped and painted, 
the less I wonder why Christ should have 
chosen fishermen for Ilis companions. 



ox J IIK OrXKS, KAAISKIJC;, NKAR SKAOKX. 



Copyright, 1895, by the Photographic Union, Munich.'] 

^be JTrotb. 


FuOM the PiCTUJtE EY E. KlIMSCHE, IN THE POSSESSION OF MESSRS. GUIXN AND IIeMPEL, I.EIPEIG, 




BY COITBTESY OF THE OLOWN. 


By Ahnie Fellows Johnston.* 

ni'ustraied hiy Henry Huit, 


HE little mail in 
motley, thrusting 
his face through 
the curtains of the 
big circus tent, 
looked out on the 
gathering crowds 
and grinned. To 
him that assem¬ 
blage of gaping 
backwoods pioneers 
was a greater show 
than the one he 
was travelling with, 
although the circus 
itself was a pioneer 
in its way. It was the first that laid ever 
travelled through tlie almost unbroken 
forests of southern Indiana, and the fame of 
its performance at Yinceimes had spread to 
the Ohio long before the plodding oxen laid 
drawn the heavy lion cages half that distance. 
Such wild rumours of it had found their way 
across the sparsely settled hills and hollows, 
that families who had not been out of sight 
of their cabin cliimneys in five years or more 
were drawn irresistibly circus ward. 

Standing on a barrel, beliind a hole in the 
canvas of the tent, the little clown amused 
himself by watching the stream of arrivals. 
As far as he could see, down the glaringly 
sunny road, rising clouds of dust betokened 
the approach of a seemingly endless procession. 
The whole county appeared to be flocking 
to the commons just outside of Burnville, 
where the annual training in military tactics 
took place on “ muster-days.” People were 
coming by the wagon-load ; neaily every 
horse carried double, and one old nag ambled 
up with a row of boys astride her patient 
back from neck to tail. 

It was a hot afternoon in August, and a 
rank, almost overpowering odour of dog- 
fennel rose from the dusty weeds trampled 
down around the tent. The little clown was 
half stifled by the dust, the heat, and the 
smell, and the perspiration trickled down his 


* Copyriirht, 1899, by tlie S. S. |klGQlure Co., in the 
United States of America. 


grotesquely painted face ; but an occasional 
impatient flapping of his handkerchief to 
clear away the dust of a new arrival was all 
that betrayed his discomfort. He was 
absorbed in the conversation of a little group 
who, seated on a log directly under his peep¬ 
hole in the canvas, were patiently waiting 
for the performance to begin. 

“ My motley can’t hold a candle to theirs,” 
he thought, with an amused chuckle, as he 
surveyed them critically. “Judging by the 
cut of the girl’s old silk dress, it was a part 
of her grandmother’s wedding finery, and she 
probably spun the stuff for that snnbonnet 
herself. But tlie man — Moses in the 
bulrushes ! People back East wouldn’t 
believe me if 1 told them how he is togged 
out : tow trousers, broadcloth coat with brass 
buttons, bare feet, and a coonskin cap, on 
this the hottest of all the hot dog-days ever 
created.” 

He wiped his face again after this inven¬ 
tory, and steadied himself on the barrel. 
All unconscious of the audience they were 
entertaining, the man and girl were retailing 
tlie neighbourhood news to a tired-looking 
little woman, who sat on the log beside them, 
with a heavy baby in her arms. Their broad 
Western speech was as unfamiliar as it was 
amusing to their unseen listener. The barrel 
shook with his suppressed laughtei*, as they 
repeated the rumours they had heard 
regarding the circus. 

“ Thar was six oxen to draw the lion 
cages,” said the girl, fanning herself with 
her snnbonnet. “ Sam said them beasts 
roared to beat the Hutch—two of ’em. And 
he says thar’s a pock-marked Irishman as 
goes around between acts with a nine-banded 
armadillo. Ef ye tech it, ye’ll never liave 
tlie toothache no more. But thar’s suthin’ 
better nor liim. Sam says he 'lows we’ll 
jest all die a-laughin’ when we see the clown. 
The whole end of the State has gone wild 
over that air clown. Sam says they make 
more fuss over him than they would over the 
President ef he was t’come to this neck o’ 
woods.” 

Here the auditor behind the scenes, with 
his hand on his heart, made such a low bow 




r>y COUIITESY of the clown. 


ni 



that he lost his l)alance and nearly upset the 
barrel. 

“ I reckon the elyfuiit will 1)8 the biggest 
sight,” drawled the man. “That’s what 
drawed me here. I ain’t never seen even 
the picter of an elyfnnt, and they say this 
is the real li\e 
article from t’otlier 
side of tlie world. 

They say it kin eat 
a cock of liay six 
foot high at one 
meal.” 

Here the l)al)y 
stiri’ed and fretted 
in the woman’s 
arms, and she 
wearily lifted it to 
an easier position 
agai list lier siionlder. 

“I wisli Jim would 
hurry np,” she 
siglied, wiping lier 
hot face on a corner 
of her homespun 
apron. 

“ He’s 0 V e r 
yander lielpin’ ole 
Mis’ Potter put np 
her gingerbread 
stand,”answered the 
girl, pointing to a 
large oak - tree on 
the edge of the 
common. “ I see 
’em when she first 
come a-drivin’ np 
on that big ox-sled, 
with a barrel of 
cider behind her. 

Law, I reckon she 
hain’t never missed 
bein’ on hand to 
sell her cakes and 
cider here on 
muster-days nary a 
time in ten years.” 

“’T ain’t Mis’ 

Potter,” answered 
the older woman. 

“ She’s ben laid up 
with rhenmatiz 
nearly all summer. 

It’s Poone Eatclilfe’s mother and his little 
MTlliam.” 

“ Yon don’t mean it ? ” exclaimed the 
girl, witli eager interest, standing up to 
get a better view. “ ^sot ole ‘ Madame 
Eatcliffe,’ as pap calls her ! I’ve ben honin’ 


for a sight of her ever sence last spring, 
when I lieerd she’d come out from Mary¬ 
land. I used to hear about her afore 
Boone married M’randy. It was M’randy 
as told me about her. She said the ole lady 
was so rich and so stuck-up that she never 


The little clown amused himself by watchini^ the stream of arrivals." 


even tied her own shoes. They had slaves 
and land and money and everything that 
heart could wish, and they didn’t think 
that M’randy was good enough for their 
only son. The letters they writ to Boone 
trying to head him off made M’randy so 

L 















188 


THE WIXESOR MAGAZINE, 



imid tluit I didn’t suppose she’d ever get 
over it.” 

“ She didn’t,” answered the little woman, 
“ and it was scant welcome they got when 
they come. The letter they sent a month 
aforehand never got here, so of course nobody 
knowed they was a-comin’, and they wa’n’t 
nobody down to the Ohio River landin’ 
to meet ’em. My Jim lie liappened to be 
thar when tlieygot off’n the flat-boat. They 
was dreadful put out when they didn’t find 
Boone watching out for ’em, after coinin’ 
all the way from IMaryland. (loodness knows 
what ’ud become of ’em ef Jim hadn’t hap- 
])ened acrost ’em. The boat had gone on 
down the river and left ’em settin’ thar on 
shore amongst the bales and boxes, as help¬ 
less as two kittens. Jim he seen ’em a-set- 


tin’ thar, and bein’ a soft-hearted chap and 
knowin’ snthin’ was wrong, he up and spoke. 

‘‘ They was so bewildered like, ’count of 
not finding Boone, and everything bein’ so 
dif’runt from what they lotted on, that they 
Avas well-nigh daft. The ole man had ben 
sick ever sence they left Pittsburg, and they 
Avas both plum tuckered out AAdth that long 
flat-boat trip. Jim he jest h’isted ’em into 
the Avagon, big chest and all, and brought 
’em on to Bnrnville. 

“ He said ’twas ])lain to be seen they 
hadn’t ncA'er been used to roughin’ it in any 
Avay. The ole gentleman Avas so sick lie had 
to lean his head on her shoulder all the Avay, 
and she kep’ a-strokin’ his Avhite hair Avith 
her fine soft fingers, and talkin’ to him as if 
he’d ben a child. She tried to chirk him 


















BY COURTESY OF THE CLOWN, 


189 


up bj telliii’ him they’d soon be to Boone’s 
home, and talkin’ ’bout when Boone was a 
little feller, till dim couldn’t hardly stand it, 
he’s that soft-hearted. 

‘‘ He knew all the time what a disapp’int- 
ment was in store when they should set eyes 
on M’randy and the cabin, and find Boone 
growed to be so rough and common. It was 
dark when they got thar. Boone hadn’t got 
home yit, and thar wa’n’t a sign of a light 
about the place. Bo Jim lef’ the ole folks 
setting in the wagon, and went in to break 
the news to M’randy, knowin’ what a high- 
tempered piece she is at times. He said she 
was settiii’ on the doorstep in her bare feet 
and dirty ole linsey-woolsey dress, jawin’ 
little AYilliam. She’d ben a-makin’ soap all 
day, and was dead tired. 

“ When Jim tole her what ’twas, the sur¬ 
prise seemed to strike her all of a heap. 
She never made a move to git up, and as 
soon as she could git her breath she begun 
to splutter like blue blazes. She said some 
folks had more burdens laid onto their shoul¬ 
ders than l)y rights was their share, and she 
couldn’t see what made them ole people come 
trackin’ out whei’e they was neither wanted 
nor expected. She hadn’t no airthly use for 
that stuck-up ole Mis’ Ratcliffe, if she was 
Boone’s inother. Oh, she jest talked up 
scan’lous. 

‘Slim he was afraid they would hear her 
clear out in the road, so lie kep’ tryiii’ to 
smoothe her down, and then he went out 
and tried to smoothe things over to the ole 
people. By the time they’d climbed out’n the 
wagon and walked up the path William had 
lit a candle, and she was holdin’ it over her 
head in the doorway. The way Jim tole it 
I could jest see how they stood lookin’ at 
each other, like as they vras takin’ their 
measures. Jim said they both seemed to 
see the difference, ]\I’randy so frowsy and 
common-lookin’, for all her prettiness, and 
the ole lady so fine and aristocratic in her 
elegant dress and bnnnit. He said he’d never 
fergit how^ white and tired-lookin’ their old 
faces showed up in the candlelight, and sort 
of disapp’inted, too, over the welcome they’d 
ben expectin’ and didn’t git. 

“ M’randy didn’t even offer to shake hands. 
After she’d stared a mi mite she said, sorter 
stiff-like, ‘ Well, 1 s’jiose yon may as well 
come on in.’ Jim says there was tears in 
the ole lady’s eyes when she follered iM’randy 
into the cabin, but she wiped ’em away real 
(juick, and spoke ii]) cheerful to ole i\Tr. 
Ratcliff e. 

“ The room was in such a muss there wa'ii't 


an empty chair to set on tell i\rrandy jerked 
the things off two of m and kicked the stuff' 
out of sight under the bed. Then she dusted 
’em with her apron, and said, in a long- 
sufferin’ sort of tone, that she reckoned ’twas 
about as chea]) settin’ as stand in’. 

“ Ole Mis’ Ratcliffe tried to apologise fer 
coinin’. She said that their daughter back 
in iMaryland tried to keep ’em from it, but 
that Boone couldn’t come to them, and it 
had been ten years since he had left home, 
and they felt they must see him once more 
before they died. Jim said it was so pitiful 
the way she talked that he got all worked 
up.” 

“ Why didn’t they turn right around and 
go home the next day ? ’ cried the girl, with 
flashing eyes. “ That’s M’randy all over 
again when she once gits her temper up; 
but people as rich as them don’t have to put 
up with nobody’s high and mighty ways.” 

“ They are not rich any more,” was the 
answer. “A few years ago they lost all 
they had, slaves, land, and everything, and 
their married daughter in Baltimore is takin’ 
care of ’em. She was sure they wouldn’t 
find it agreealile out here, so she provided 
the money for ’em to come back on ; but the 
ole man had his pocket picked cornin’ down 
on that flat-boat, and they don’t feel as they 
could write back and ask her for more. She’s 
good to ’em as can be, but she hasn’t got 
any more than she needs, and they hate to 
ask for it. 'I’hat’s why the ole lady is here 
to-day, takin’ Mis’ Potter’s place. Boone 
persuaded her to come, and tole her if she 
could make as much as Mis’ Potter always 
does, it will be enough to pay their way back 
to Maryland. He helped her get ready. I 
don’t know what he said to iM’randy to make 
her stand aside and not interfere, but she 
made u]) the gingerliread as meek as iMoses, 
and let Jim roll the barrel of cider out of the 
smoke-house without a word.” 

“Why don’t Boone scratch around and 
raise the money somehow?” put in the man, 
who had chewed in interested silence as he 
listened to the story. Now he stopped to 
bite another mouthful from a big twist of 
tobacco he took from his broadcloth coat 
pocket. 

“ ’Pears like their only son is the one that 
ought to do fer ’em, and at least he could 
make jM’ randy shut up and treat his parents 
civil.” 

“ Boone I” sniffed the woman. “ Why, 
he’s under iM’randy’s thumb so tight that he 
dassent sneeze if she don’t take snuff. Be¬ 
sides, he’s ben on the flat of his back off and 


140 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


on all snniiner, with duiiib ag'ue. It’s run 
into a slow fever now, and it takes every 
picayune they can scrape together to git his 
medicines. Then, too, M’randy sprained her 
ankle a inoiith or so back, and things have 
been awful sence then. The ole man he 
don’t realise he is in the way, he’s so cliildisli 
and Ijroken down. He jest sorter droops 
around, pinin’ for the comforts he’s always 
ben used to, in a way that almost breaks his 
ole wife’s heart. kShe feels it keen enough 
for both of ’em, because she can’t bear to 
see him lackin’ anything he needs, and she’d 
rather die than 1)e a burden to anybody. 

‘‘I tell Jim I’m sorry for the whole set, 
and I can see it isn’t the pleasantest thing 
for M’landy to give up a room to them 
when thar’s only two in tlie cabin, and her 
ways ain’t their ways, and their bein’ thar 
puts eveiythiug out of joint; but Jim he 
sides with the ole people. He’s mighty 
sorry for ’em, and would have put his hand 
in his own pocket and paid their expenses 
long ago back to ^Maryland, ef he’d a-ben 
able. He’s ben a great comfort to the ole 
lady, he’s jest that soft-hearted. I hope 
she’ll sell out as fast as Mis’ Potter always 
done.” 

Before the girl could echo her Avish there 
was a discordant scraping inside the tent, a 
sound of the baud beginning to tune their 
instruments. Instantly there was a rush to¬ 
ward the tent, and all three of the little 
group sprang to their feet. The little Avoman 
looked Avildly around for Jim, Avith such an 
anxious expression that the cloAvn lingered 
a moment, regardless of the stream of people 
pouring into the entrance so near him that 
the curtain which screened him from public 
view Avas nearly torn doAvn. He Avaited 
until he saAV a buiIy, good-natured man 
push his way through the croAvds and 
transfer the lieaAy baby from the Avoman’s 
tired arms to his l)road shoulder. Then he 
turned away with a (jueer little smile on his 
painted face. 

“ He’s jest that soft-hearted,” he re¬ 
peated, half under his breath. The Avoman’s 
story had stirred him strangely. “It’s a 
pity there’s not more like him,” he con¬ 
tinued. “1 guess that too few Jims and 
too many M’randys is AA’hat is the matter 
Avith this dizzy old planet.” 

“ What’s that ye’re grumbling about, 
Hnmpty Duinpty ?” asked the pock-marked 
Irishman as he came uj) Avith his nine-banded 
armadillo, all ready for the performance. 
Then in his most professional tones : “ If it 
is the toothache yez have now. I’ll be afther 


curing it entoirely Avid Avan touch of this 
baste from-” 

“ Oh, get out! ” exclaimed the cloAvn, 
putting his hand on the tall Irishman’s 
shoulder and springing lightly doAvn from 
the ])arrel. “ I’m dead sick of all this 
monkey 1 nisi ness. If it Avasn’t a matter of 
bread-and-butter J Avonldn’t laugh again in 
a year.” 

“Yez couldn’t make anybody out there in 
that hig aujence belave it,” laughed the 
Irishman. “ They think yer life is Avan per- 
petooal joke ; that yez are a joke yerself for 
that matther, a two-legged Avan, done up in 
cap and bells.” 

“You’re right,” said the cloAvn bitterly, 
looking askance at his striped legs. “But 
‘ a man’s a man for a’ that and a’ that,’ and 
he gets tired sometimes of always being taken 
for a jesting fool. Curse this livery ! ” 

The Irishman looked at him shreAvdly. 
“ Yon should have gone in for a ’varsity cap 
and gOAvn, and Oi’ve been thinking sometimes 
that maybe yez did start out that Avay.” 

A dull red gloAved under the paint on the 
clown’s face, and be ran into the ring in 
response to the signal Avithont a reply. A 
tluindering lound of applause greeted him, 
Avhicdi broke out again as he glanced all 
around Avith a purposely silly leer. Then he 
caught sight of Jim’s honest face, smiling 
expectantly on him from one of the front 
benches. It struck him like a pain that this 
man could not look through his disguise of 
taAvdry circus trappings, and see that a 
man’s heart was boating under the cloAvn’s 
motley. There came a sudden fierce longing 
to tear off his ontAvard character of monnte- 
l)ank for a moment, and shoAv Jim the stifled 
nature underneath, noble enough to recog¬ 
nise the tender chivalry hidden in the rough 
exterior of the aAvkA\ard backAvoodsman, and 
to be claimed by him as a kindred spirit. 

As he laughed and danced and sang no 
one dreamed that his thoughts kept revert¬ 
ing to scenes that the Avoman’s story had 
called u]), or that a, plan Avas sloAvly shaping 
in his mind Avhereby he might serve the 
homesick old soul Avaiting out under the 
oak-tree for the performance to be done. 

No wonder that peo])le accustomed to see¬ 
ing old Mrs. Potter in that place, gowned in 
liomespnn, and knitting a coarse yarn sock, 
had stoi)])ed to stare at the ncAvcomer. Such 
a type of high-born, perfect ladyhood had 
never appeared in their midst before. The 
dress that she Avore Avas a relic of the old 
Maryland days ; so Avas the lace cap that 
rested like a bit of rare frost-Avoi'k on her 



BY COURTESY OF THE CLOWS'. 


U1 



“ He luid been funny enou.i;-li in the ring, but uoav they found Ids jokes irresistible.” 


silvery hair. Mrs. Potter knew everybody 
for miles around, and was ready to laugh 
and joke with anyone who stopped at her 
stand. Mrs. PatclifPe sat in dignified silence, 
a faint colour deepening in her cheeks like 
the blnsli of a winter rose. It was so much 
worse tlian she had antici]fated to liave these 
rude strangers staring at her, as if she were 


a [)art of the show. She Iweathed a sigh of 
relief when the music began, for it drew the 
crowds into the tent as if Ify magic. She 
and little Milliam were left entirely alone. 

With the strident l)oom of the bass viol 
came the rank smell of tlie dog-fennel that 
1 lurrying feet had left bruised and wilting in 
the Sim. All the rest of her life that warm, 













142 


THE WIXDSOll MACrAZIEE, 


weedy odour always brought back tliat 
humiliating experience like a keen pain. 
The horses in the surrounding grove stamped 
restlessly and whinnied as they switched off 
the flies. The long ride and the unaccus¬ 
tomed lal)Our of the morning had exhausted 
her. Blie l)egau to nod in her chair, giving 
lierself up to a sense of drowsiness, for as 
long as the people were in the tent she would 
have no occupation. 

Her white head dropped lower and lower, 
until presently she was oblivious to all sur¬ 
roundings. Little William, sitting on the old 
wood-sled with his back against the cider 
barrel, was forgotten. M’randy and the ill- 
kept cabin vanished entirely from her memory. 
She was back in the old Maryland days on 
her father’s plantation, hedged about with 
loving forethought, as tenderly sheltered as 
some delicate white flower. Every path had 
been made smooth for hei’, every wish antiei- 
pated, all her life long, until that day when 
they liad set their faces westward to find 
Boone. It was eoming down the Ohio on 
that long journey by flat-boat tliat she 
suddenly aAvoke to the knowledge tliat her 
husband’s illness had left him a broken-down 
old man, as weak and irresponsible as a child. 

But mercifully her dreams were back of 
that time. They were back with Boone in 
his gay young boyhood, when he danced 
minuets with the Governor’s daughter, and 
entertained his college-friends in lordly style 
on the old plantation. Back of that time 
when the restlessness of his teens sent him 
roving over the Alleghanies to the frontier, 
regardless of their long-cherished ambitions 
for him. Back of the time when in a sudden 
mad whim he had married a settler’s pretty 
daughter, whom he was ashamed to take back 
to civilisation when he thought of the 
Baltimore belles to whom he had paid boyish 
court. He had not stopped to consider her 
rough speech and uncouth manners. He had 
been a long time out in the wilderness, he 
was only twenty, and her full red lips 
tempted him. 

If the dreams could only have stopped 
then, that little space she slept, while the 
circus band thrummed and drummed inside 
the tent, and the shadows of the hot August 
afternoon lengthened under the still trees 
outside, would have been a blessed respite. 
But they repeated the unpleasant parts as 
well. They came on down to the night 
of that uuw’elcome arrival. They showed her 
the days when Boone lay prostrate with a 
slow malarial fever; the days when the fierce 
heat made him drag his pallet desperately 


from one corner to another across the bare 
puncheons, trying to find a spot where he 
could be comfortable. She could see him 
lying as he had so often lain, with his face 
turned towards the back door, looking out 
with aching eyes on the tall corn that filled 
the little clearing. In his feverish wanderings 
he complained that it was crowding up around 
the house trying to choke him. And there 
was little William, little nine - year - old 
AViUiam, sitting on the floor beside him, 
attempting to flap away the flies with a bunch 
of walnut leaves. There were long intervals 
sometimes when the heat overpowered the 
child with di’owsiness. Then the walnut 
branch wavered uncertainly or stopped in 
mid-air, while he leaned against the table 
leg with closed eyes and open mouth. Some¬ 
times Miranda slept on the doorstep, bare¬ 
footed, as usual, with a dirty bandage around 
her sprained ankle. 

In that short sleep she seemed to re-live 
the whole summer that had dragged on until 
her sense of dependence grew to be 
intolerable. iMiranda’s shrill complaining 
came penetrating again into the tiny room 
where she sat l)y her husband’s bed, and the 
old head was bowed once more on his pillow, 
as she sobbed, “Oh, MGlliam, dear lieart, 
if the Lord would only take us away together ! 
I cannot bear to be a burden to anyone 1 ” 
It was the sound of her oAvn sobbing that 
aAvakened her, and she sat up Avith a sudden 
start, realising that she had been asleep. 
She must have slept a long time. In that 
interval of unconsciousness the tavern-keeper 
from BurnA'ille had erected a riA^al stand a 
feAV rods aAvay. 

She saw Avith dismay his attractive display 
of “ store ” goods. Then her face flushed 
as he began to set out Avhisky bottles and 
glasses. Her first impulse aa'us to gather up 
her belongings and get liome as quickly as 
possible. In her pcr])lexity she looked around 
for little William. Regarding a circus Avith 
such contempt herself, it had never occurred 
to her that he Avould care to see it. 

He Avas a timid little felloAV, Avho always 
hid Avhen company came to the house, and 
he had neA’er been away from liome more 
than a dozen times in his life. The crowds 
frightened him, and he stayed as closely as 
a shadoAv at his grandmother’s elboAV until 
the music began. Then he forgot himself. 
It thrilled him indescribably, and he Avatched 
Avith longing eyes as the people croAvded into 
the tent. It seemed to him that he must 
certainly go Avild if he could not folloAv. But 
they had sold nothing. Even if they had, 


JJY COURTESY OF THE CLOWN. 


148 



he would not have dared to ask for enough 
money to pay his admission, it seemed such 
an enormous sum. As she began to nod in 
her chair he began to edge nearer the tent. 
He would catch now and then a word of the 
clown’s jokes, and bear the roars of laughter 
that followed. When the clown began to 


“ ‘ We are going back to iNFaryland, clear heart 


sing, William had one ear pressed against 
the tent. People cla])ped and cheered up¬ 
roariously at the last line of every stanza. 
He could not hear enough of the words to 
understand why. In the general commotion 
lie was conscious of only one thing : lie was 
on the outside of that tent, and he must get 
inside or die. 


Regardless of consequences, be threw him¬ 
self on the grass and wriggled ai’ound until 
he succeeded in squeezing himself under the 
canvas. Phere was a moment of dizzy lie- 
wilderment as he vSat up and looked around. 
Then some cold, squirming thing touched 
the back of his neck. He ga\ e a smothered 
cry of terror ; it 
was the elephant’s 
trunk. He had 
come up directly 
under the animal 
“ from t’other side 
of the world, that 
could eat a six-foot 
cock of hay at one 
meal.” 

As he sat there, 
shivering and 
blubbering, afraid 
to move because 
he did not know 
which end of the 
clumsy monster 
was head and 
which tail, he 
heard a loud 
guffaw. The pock¬ 
marked Iiishman 


who had charge of 
the nine - banded 
armadillo had seen 
the little side-show, 
and it doubled him 
up with laughter. 
He roared and 
slapped his thigh 
and laughed again 
until he was out of 
breath. Then he 
gravely wiped his 
eyes and drew the 
boy out from under 
the great animal. 
William clung to 
him, sobbing. 
Then the warm¬ 
hearted felloAv, see¬ 
ing that he was 
really terrified, 
took liim around 
and showed him all the sights. In the 
delight of that hour, hojiie, grandmothei’, 
and the world outside were completel}' 
forgotten. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Ratcliffe sat wondering 
what had become of the boy. People began 
to straggle out of the tent. There was to 
be another performance after dark, and slie 







]44 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



expected to find lier customers among those 
who stayed for tliat. The tavern-keeper 
began calling attention to his refreshments 
in a facetious way that drew an amused 
crowd around him. Her hopes sank, as 
group after group passed her without 
stopping. Two young fellows from the 
village who had 
been drinking 
pushed roughly 
against her table. 

‘‘Hi, granny ! ” 
hiccoughed one of 
them. 

“ P u r t y fine 
doughnuts, ole 
girl ! ” He gath¬ 
ered up a plateful, 
and tried to find 
liis pocket with 
unsteady fingers. 

She stood up Avith 
a sickening feeling 
of helplessness and 
looked around ap¬ 
pealingly. Just 
then a lieaA^y hand 
struck the fellow 
in the mouth, and 
jerked him back 
by his coat-collar. 

The pock-marked 
Irishman, to whom 
the bewildered 
little William still 
clung, had under¬ 
taken to find the 
boy’s grandmother 
f or him. T h e 
child’s artless 
story had aroused 
his Avarmest sym¬ 
pathies, and noth¬ 
ing could have 
given him greater 
pleasure than this 
opportunity to 
fight for her. 

“ Put thim back, 
you ugly thafe o’ 
the AAmrruld,” lie 
roared, “ or Oi’ll 
throw yez entoirely over the sorcuss tint ! ” 

The man bristled up for a fight, lint one 
look into the big Irishman’s gloAA^ering eyes 
sobered him enough to make him drop the 
cakes and slink aAvay. 

The Irishman looked embarrassed as Mrs. 
Patchffe began to thank him Avith tears in 


her eyes, and hurried back to the tent. The 
look of distress deepened on her face. 
Everybody passed her table for the one 
made popular by the loud-voiced man Avho 
knew so Avell Iioav to advertise his AA^ares. 
With a stifled groan she looked around on 
the great pile of provisions she had brought. 


AVhat quantities of good material utterly 
Avasted ! AYhat Avould IMiranda say ? 

As she looked around her in dismay she 
saAv the clown coming toAvard her, still in 
his cap and bells. He had been Avatching 
the scene from a distance. Her distress AA^as 
pitiful. To be compelled to Avait on this 


“‘The truest gentleman I luive met in many a day ! ' ” 











BY COURTESY OF THE CLOWN. 


jesting fool like any common barmaid would 
fill her cup of degradation to overflowing. 
What could she do if he accosted her 
familiarly as he did everyone else ? 

He leaned over and took off his grotesque 
cap. “ Madam,” he said, in a low, respectful 
tone, ‘‘ I have no money, but if you will 
kindly give me a cake and a mug of cider, 
you shall soon have plenty of customers.” 

Greatly surprised, she filled him a cup, 
wondering what he would do. There was a 
rush for that part of the grounds as the hero 
of the hour appeared. He bad been funny 
enough in the ring, but now they found his 
jokes irresistible. His exaggerated praises 
of all he ate and drank were laughed at, but 
everybody followed his example. More than 
one gawky boy bought something for the 
sake of being made the subject of his 
flattering witticisms. The tavern-keeper 
called and sang in vain. As long as the 
clown told funny stories and praised Mrs. 
Katcliffe’s gingerbread all other allurements 
were powerless. He stayed with lier until 
the last cake had been l)ought and the cider 
barrel was empty. 

It was nearly sundown when she started 
home. Jim came up to ]*oll the empty barrel 
on to the sled, to place her chair against it, 
and help little AVilliam hitch up the oxen ; 
but when she looked around to thank the 
little clown he had disappeared. No one 
could tell where he had gone. 

Never in her girlhood, rolling home in 
the stately family coach from some gay 
social conquest, had she felt so victorious. 
She jingled the silk reticule at her side with 
childish pleasure. She could hardly wait for 
the slow oxen to plod the two long miles 
toward home, and when they stopped in 
front of the little cabin she was trembling 
with eagerness. Hurrying up the path 
through the gathering dusk she poured her 
treasure out on lier husband’s bed. 

“ Look ! ” she cried, laying her face on 
the pillow and slipping an arm around Ins 
neck. “We are going back to Maryland, 
dear heart ! ” She nestled her faded cheek 
against liis with, a happy little sob. “ Oli, 
William, we need not be a burden any 
longer, for Ave’re going home to-morrow ! ” 

^ ^ ^ 

Later, the full August moon swung up 
over the edge of the forest. It flooded the 


Uf) 

little clearing with its white light, and 
turned the dusty road in front of the cabin 
to a broad band of silver. A slow, steady 
tramp of many feet marching across a 
wooden bridge in the distance fell on the 
intense stillness of the summer night. 

“ It’s the circus,” said Boone, raising his 
head to listen. “ I reckon they’re travellin’ 
by night on account of the heat, and they’ll 
be pushin’ on down to the river.” 

His Avife limped to the door and sat doAvn 
on the step to Avatch for its coming, but his 
mother hurried out to the fence aiid leaned 
across the bars, AA^aiting. 

A strange procession of uiiAvieldy monsters, 
never before seen in this peaceful Avoodland, 
loomed up in the distance, huge and black, 
AAdiile a stranger procession of fantastic 
shadoAA^s stalked grimly by its side. The 
sleepy keepers dozed in their saddles, filing 
by in ghostly silence, save for the clanking 
of trace-chains and the creaking of the heavy 
lion cages. 

At the extreme end of the long line came 
the tired little cloAvn on the trick mule. A 
sorrier-looking object could not be imagined, 
as he sat Avitli his knees drawn up and his 
head bent dejectedly doAvn. He did not 
notice the figure leaning eagerly over the 
bars, until she called him. Then he looked 
up Avith a start. The next instant he had 
dismounted and aaus standing bareheaded in 
tlie road before lier. The moonJight made 
a lialo of her Avhite hair, and lighted up her 
gentle, aristocratic face Avith something of its 
old high-born beauty. 

“ I Avail ted to thank you,” she said, hold¬ 
ing out her slender hand to the painted 
little jester Avith the gracious dignity tliat 
had alAA'ays been her charm. “You dis¬ 
appeared this afternoon before I could tell 
you hoAV much your courtesy has done for 
me and mine.” 

He boAved Ioav OA^er the little hand. 

“ I bid you fareAvcll, sir,” she added 
gently. “ The truest gentleman I liave met 
ill many a day ! ” It Avas the recognition 
that lie had craA^ed. She liad seen the man 
through the motley. He looked u]), his face 
gloAving as if that Avomanly recognition had 
knighted him ; and Avith the remembrance 
of that touch resting on him like a royal 
accolade he rode on after the procession 
into the depths of the moonlighted forest. 



B Xabour of Xove. 

From tiik I’icti kic by Fkrcy I arrant 




1 



Photo by"] 


Frith <t* Co., Reigate. 

DULWICH COLI.EGK; the chapel IX THE CENTRE OVER THE PORCH. 


TO THE MEMORY OF THE RRAYE: 

HOW THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS HONOUK THEIR DEAD HEROp]S. 

By George A. AVade. 


T he second and concluding article deal¬ 
ing with this subject ninst begin with 
AA^inchester, the oldest and probably the 
most renowned public school we have, scarcely 
excepting Eton and Harrow. AA^inchester 
boasts two fine memorials to her brave sons 
who have fallen in battle. One of these is a 
memorial to Old AA^ykehamists who were killed 
in the Crimean war, and it stands in the ante- 
chapel of the College. But perhaps the other 
memorial will most attract the average visitor. 
It takes the form of a charming gateway into 
the cloisters, and was erected in remembrance 
of Sir Herbert Stewart, who, as many readers 
will doubtless recollect, was killed in the 
Egyptian campaign of the early eighties. 

To the world this gentle, beloved soldier 
was “Sir” Herbert Stewart ; to his old college 
he ever remained simply “ Herbert Stewart,” 
as is shown in. the inscription over the beauti¬ 
ful gateway. The monument is in excellent 
taste, the coat-of-arms and the two angels 
standing above the inscription being all that 
the gallant man commemorated would him¬ 
self have desired, with his name, to perpetuate 


his memory at the school of which he was so 
very proud. As one walks through this 
little gate one wonders whether, on that arid 
Egyptian desert, Stewart ever sang that 
famous evening song which has re-echoed 
through these very cloisters for so many long 
generations ; and we hear him, in fancy, as 
he marches on that final lonely inarch, and 
as he sinks into the last unconsciousness, 
singing softly to himself, “ Dnlce Domum 
Resonaraus.” 

In these same cloisters, too, there are 
various tablets to other braAe sons of 
AYinchester who have died whilst serving their 
country ; and thus the old school of AVilliam 
of AA^ykeliam can hold up its head with the 
proudest of military schools. 

Kipling has said that “ There are in India 
hundreds of ‘ Btalkys ’ who have come from 
Marlborough, Cheltenham, and Haileybury,” 
and it must be confessed that Cheltenham 
has indeed sent out a goodly number of 
“ Stalkys ” who have helped to keep the 
glory of England bright. The famous school 
in Gloucestershire can show no less than 


This article forms a sequel to one which aj)peared in the Windsor for December, 1899 , and included 
the memorials of Eton, Harroiu, liughy, Marlhoromjh, and others of our great public schools. 

147 











148 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



twenty-two tablets, erected to tlie iiieinory of 
her old pupils who have either been killed in 
actual battle, or who have died whilst doing 
active service under unusual conditions on 
behalf of their country. In some cases there 
are several names of l)rave men, slain in 
different campaigns, upon one tablet, though, 
as a rule every separate tablet is supposed to 
contain only the names of men who fell in 
the same war. But Cheltenham lias had so 
many of the brave that she has had to get 
their names in wherever she could ! 

The tablets are large, of fine marble, but 
otherwise plain. They contain the name, the 
campaign, and the age of the soldier they are 
intended to commemorate, ranging from 


colonels down to ensigns, showing gallant 
fellows who have died in every corner of the 
world defending Britain or proclaiming her 
power. After you have spent an hour or 
two reading these tablets you will no longer 
wonder at Kipling’s praise of Cheltenham 
College. 

AViien Haileybury sets about anything it 
must be allowed that she means business, and 
so we are not surprised to learn that one of tlie 
most beautiful memorials in any college or 
school chiipel to the celebrated brave amongst 
‘‘old boys” belongs to Haileybury, and is 
entirely her own, both in design and execution. 
And equally it must be confessed that the men 
honoured have deserved it, it being erected to 
the memory of the 
ever - famous Coghill 
and Hodson, who, with 
Teignmouth Melvill, 
of Hari‘o\v (spoken of 
in our first article), 
won immortal fame 
by their valiant deeds 
on that blackest and 
yet most glorious day 
in British annals, 
Jaimary 22nd, 1879, 
on the field of Isandl- 
whana. It will not be 
forgotten that, so 
impressed was Her 
Majesty with the 
splendid efforts of 
Melvill and Coghill to 
save the coloui’S of 
the 24th on that day, 
when they were found 
dead with the flags 
wrapped round them, 
that even when dead 
these two heroes were 
awarded the Victoria 
Cross, an honour 
recently accorded also 
to the late Lieutenant 
F. H. Boberts—a 
unique method,surely, 
in the history of any 
nation, as regards 
rewarding its brave. 

Cogliill and Hodson 
were great friends at 
school, and they were 
officers in the same 
regiment, and fought 
side by side on that 
terrible day. Hailey¬ 
bury has not forgotten 


GATEWAY AT WINCHESTER, ERECTED IN HEMORY OF SIR HERRERT STEWART. 
























TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE. 


149 



Photo hy'\ j-y,* Frith «£• Co., Reigate. 

CLTKTON COLr.KGE f’lIAPKE. 


to mention these interesting 
facts in her tine recognition 
of them. It was decided that 
this memorial shoidd take 
the form of the adorning of 
the dome in the cliancel of 
the cliapel by splendid paint¬ 
ings of the four Evangelists, 
and two of tliese are shown 
in our illustration. A brass 
on the wall in a recess on the 
left side of the altar records 
Hailey])nry’s noble testi¬ 
mony to the two. Its situa¬ 
tion can be traced in the 
photograi)h, and its Latin 
inscription may be trans¬ 
lated into English somewhat 
as follows :— 

To the ineinory of Neville J. 

Aylmer Cogliill lind George Fred¬ 
erick J. llodson, each of whom 
kept faithfully both his oath to his 
Queen and his vow of friendship, 
in that terrible slaughter near 
Isandlwhana, when they died 
“quitting themselves like men ! ” 

The ligures of the four Evan¬ 
gelists painted above are placed 
there in memory of these two true 
fellow soldiers and friends. 

This memorial was erected 
in June, 1880, and does 
honour to the school and 
the dead at the same time. 

Another memorial was the 
stone cross raised on the 
spot in Zululand where the two faithful 
friends’ bodies were found, a photograph of 
which, by the kindness of the Haileybury 
masters, I am enabled to give here. 

Bedford (Grammar School boasts a unujue 
memorial to a dead soldier who received his 
education at that celebrated seat of learning. 
It is a cricket pa\'ilion, and seems to show 
that this school has discovered a way of com¬ 
bining the useful with the commemorative 
that might well be followed by others. 

Henry Cross, to Avhosc memory this pavilion 
is raised, was an “ old boy ” and afterwards an 
assistant-master at Bedford School. He lost 
his life in the Soudan war, just after the 
battle of Omdurman. He was not killed in 
battle, bnt died of the dreaded fever so 
common in those climes. Nor was he a 
“soldier of the Queen,”for he was out thei'e 
doing duty as war correspondent of the 
Manchp.sfer Gt/ardicm. But he was a 
brave, noble fellow, none the less, ready 
to take a hand in driving back the foe if 
needed, and his old schoolfellows knew his 


worth and soon decided to commemorate his 
brave Avork in the mannei’ described. 

Clifton College has adopted the form of 
Inasses for all its memorials of distinguished 
Cliftonians Avho have been killed in battle. 
In the chapel the visitor may see these, but 
their number is not yet very large, since 
Clifton has not behind it the antiquity and 
proAvess which belong to the older founda¬ 
tions for producing many military men of 
renoAvn. Yet the school near Bristol can 
claim, ncA^ertheless, that when its sons have 
been “tried in the fire” liteiully, they haA-e 
stood the ordeal nobly and Avell; and the 
blood Avhich aatis so loyally given by those 
brave felloAA'S, to whose memory the brasses 
in the chapel at Clifton are placed, may be 
taken as being but the seed of an extensiA^e 
har\’est of great deeds and noble actions for 
the Empire which the future of this school 
may yet be called upon to record. 

Dulwich College has dispensed Avith monu- 
meutal tablets and such forms, so far, in 
honouring the brave Alleynians AA^ho have 









150 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


heeii killed in battle. She remembers them 
in another miusual way. Whenever there is 
recorded the death of any ‘‘ old boy ” whilst 
lighting for his Qneen and country, the head¬ 
master speaks a few appropriate words to the 
whole school assembled in chapel or hall, 
upon the lessons of that boy’s death, and an. 
obituary notice, with a full account of the 
old Dulwich boy’s life, work, and death is 
published in tlie next number of the school 
magazine. The last ‘‘ old boy ” thus honoured 
was Lieutenant Keating, who Avas killed in a 
skirmish with the natives in West Africa. 

Kepton School, so tlie head-master told 


me, has no special form of commemorating 
tiie deeds of “ old boys ” who have fallen in 
battle. Yet in most cases there is put up in 
the school chapel either a small brass, if the 
commemoration be that of some individual 
soldier, or a stained-glass window, if the 
memorial be to several boys in one campaign. 
Thus the chapel at Keptou boasts several of 
these memorials, but they are too awkwardly 
placed, for lii^ht and other necessaries, to 
lend themselves easily to being photo- 
graplied. 

Bradfield College, strange to relate, has no 
memorial at all at the present time to its old 


alumni Avho have died gloriously on the 
battlefield. But this year, 1900, is the 
jubilee of the famous Berkshire educational 
establishment, and there is a talk of erect'ng 
something that shall be Avorthy of the Avell 
knoAvn public school. 

It is certain that any article of this kind 
on our great public schools Avould l)c quite 
incomplete Avithout some Avords upon one or 
two of the finest Scottish establishments. 
Fettes College, in Edinburgh, is at present 
engaged in erecting a A’ery large brass upon 
Avhich are to be engraved the names and 
details of all old Fettes boys Avho have thus 
distinguished themselves by 
meeting death bravely in 
their country’s service. But 
at the time of Avriting this 
article that brass is in an 
unfinished condition. 

Scotland’s military school, 
hoAA^ever—Avorthy of being 
coupled on equal terms Avith 
the best of the Stalky ”- 
producing schools of the 
sister country — is Glen- 
almond. That is Avhat every¬ 
body calls the noted Perth¬ 
shire school, though its true 
title is ‘‘ Trinity College.” 
But just as St. J\‘ter’s, 
AVestminster, lias become 
“ Westminster School,” so 
Trinity College has become 
‘‘ Glenalmond,” from the 
])lace it adorns. The late 
Right Hon. AV. E. Gladstone 
had a very high opinion of 
Glenalmond and its scholars. 
And no Avonder, Avhen one 
reads their records. 

Two kinds of memorials 
exist at Glenalmond to dead 
heroes of the school. One 
takes the form of a most 
magnificent AvindoAV of stained glass in the 
chancel of the chapel, over the altar. This 
Avas erected some years ago to keep in memory 
the valiant deeds of Lieutenant R. AA". Hen¬ 
derson and Ensign J. AA". Henderson, tAvo 
brothel’s, Avho were killed Avhilst defending 
the boats at CaAvnpore, on June 27th, 1857. 
Their bravery Avas mentioned liy their leaders 
in despatches home as being specially note- 
Avorthy. Also Tjientenant C. d. Langlands, 
of the 48rd Regiment, is commemorated by 
the same windoAv ; he fell in the Maori war, 
in 1864. Probably there is no similar case 
on record Avhere tAvo brothers died together 



ARTilL JiCrrnN I OXaCVTO'.’, I 

CArTAtKHr.M'AL SfTA/'P Conrfi ■ | 

h'tu^MS-ZAKKwr^r. i;/' 

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lUn a Wrui./ . av 

KlU.lPAtlH'VJI i 

AUi.MA.M A\()i:K.S(»\.IOI!NSI<)N.i 

l.iuTKx.ViT.'JU'V.HiiMi ■’ 


ALEXANDEIti)l.^SL01’\Nl«SSCIK.\}‘ 

j MA^iOR.liesCtALSTAfratllPS KlLLflV AT \ 
l‘ai'AUHi>rAL.SV'lihaiMiisiLVfiS.Aem!tt \ 

j W;iS IJ t-SKlSrS WiNTEIUJOTH AM, [ 

I Gii'TAl.'f. Mi unAS&t pptuts AXB Missies. Bmil 
I itPKS:i.wnii U-'^PiiaKUna\1SZS.Ar.sD40. i .. 

] iacnAi/na^«'N}>LYa^:sE>iCRES. ? 

4 imu rjiAV. ,v T, Rov.i 1.4 jjrarjsrtv. nmfAT 

l?OH!-«T »AVNESRliJ£l), 

hocr liteuATlAStuH otal . 

./OHN UliNRA GaMBI.H , 

’ rM’r.MxjZK" fnoT OtmArlMxmHaTAt.. 

ttv‘.TvLY.iS7aAfM>a&. 
i \Vn.l,I.\MlillJKU{.lCK IIENNEU.. i 

• Ua.TCSAS-r.SescAt.SrArrCaii)rs.aB»AT 



Photo by Had-,'] {Cheltenham. 

MKMOKIAL TAHLKTS IN ('ll KI/l'ENlI AM (’()LLK(;E CIIAPKL. 





TO THE MEMORY OH THE BRAVE, 


151 



like the Hender¬ 
sons, both old cap¬ 
tains of their school. 

Blit, lovely as 
this window is, it 
is not Glenalinond’s 
greatest glory in 
inonnmcnts of tlie 
kind we are dealing 
with. That is a 
marble slab on tlie 
wall, which is, 
doubtless, the hnest 
tribute to bravery 
that any school in 
this land possesses. 

For, till Time shall 
be no more, there 
can be no grander 
deed, in every sense, 
done by mortal 
soldier — let alone 

by a boy just out of school, a mere lad of 
seventeen, who yet was an officer in the 74th 


Photo by\ 

GRAVE OE rJETJTENANTS ('OGlinj, AXD ITODSON, OX 
ISAXDIAVIIAXA. 


[^Allen, Canterbury. 
THE BATTLEFIELD OF 


Highlanders, 

Infantry.” 


now the “ Highland Light 



IIAII.EYBURY COLLEGE CHAPEL, WITH I'AIXTIXGS TO LIEFTEXAXTS COGIIILL AXI) IlODSOX OX THE 
RIGHT AXD LEFT OF CHAXCEL ARCH. 













152 


77 //; WIXDSOll MAGAZINE. 



TAVILION IN Till-: 1‘I.AYING-1-TI-:LI>, BEDFORD GRAMM 
HENRY CROSS, OLD BOY AND ASSISTANT-MASTER, WI 
SOUDAN JUST AFTP:R OMDUliM 

And It was in one of the most memorable 
events in the history of onr Army—not on 
the battlefield, but on the deep sea—that 
Alexander Cnmine Russell won immortal 
glory for himself and added lustre to the 
name of Glenahnond School, as the inscrip¬ 
tion on that marble tablet tells. Only it does 
not tell all the story, as it ought to do-that 
wonderful, ever*engrossing story of “The 
Loss of the IHrhcnhf.ad.''' 

Everybody knows the tale itself—how the 
troopship struck upon a rock; how the 
soldiers were formed in ranks to die, whilst 
the women and children were being saved ; 
how the Avhole force, ofiicers and men, stood 
at the salnte whilst, in the deathless verse of 
Sir Francis Doyle- - 

Still inch by inch the doomed ship sank Ioav, 

Yet under stead fust men. 

Most folks have heard how England thrilled 
when that story Avas known, aiul how the old 
German Emperor had the account read out on 
parade before every regiment in the German 
Army, as a tribute to what he called tlie 
“ grandest deed ever soldiers did ! ” 

But the splendid old veteran in Berlin 
did not know the story of iVlexander 
Cnmine Russell the boy officer of seven¬ 
teen—in connection with it, or he Avonld 
assuredly have had that read out separately, 
and Glenahnond would liave become as 
famous in Germany as she is in this country. 


\R SCHOOL, IN MEMORY OF 
lO DIED OF FEVER IN THE 
AN. 


Russell was ordered 
into one of the boats 
carrying the women 
and children, for 
the purpose of com¬ 
manding it, and he 
sat with dimmed 
eyes in the stern, 
some way off the 
doomed ship, Avatch- 
ing the forms of 
his beloved com¬ 
rades and fellows 
standing upright 
there. He saAv the 
ship go doAvn, car¬ 
rying Avith it the 
hundreds of brave 
hearts. He saw 
those fearful crea¬ 
tures of the deep 
seizing their prey, 
a n d li e a r d the 
screams of scores 
of human beings 
torn to pieces b^y 
sharks. dTieii, just when all for him Avas 
safe, Avhen to liim Avas given (Avith honour) 
life, ambition, and glory, he saAv a sailor’s 
form rise close to the boat and a hand strive 
to grasp the side. 

There Avas not room in tlie craft for a 
single person more Avithont great risk of 
upsetting the boat. But as the sailor’s face 
rose clear at the boat’s side a Avoman in the 
craft called out in agony, “ SaA^e him ! Save 
him ! He is my hnsband ! ” 

No room in tliat boat for one more ! But 
Russell looked at tliat Avomaii, then at her 
children, then at that sailor struggling 
in the AAUA^es, Avith his eyes beseeching help, 
then at the dreaded sharks feasting on every 
hand. Alexander Cnmine Russell rose in the 
stern of the boat. With a bold plunge he 
jumped clear of it and helped that sailor 
into Avhat had been his OAvn place—and 
safety. Then, amidst a chorus of “ God bless 
you I ” from every soul in the boat, the young 
officer—a lad of seventeen, mind !—turned 
round to meet his death. And those in the 
boat shut their eyes and prayed. When they 
opened them again xAlexander Cnmine Russell 
Avas noAvhere to be seen ! 

But on that day Avhen the sea gives 
up its dead there Avill be no nobler hero 
yielded up than the brave boy of Glen¬ 
ahnond School to Avhose memory that marble 
tablet (here shoAvn in a photograph taken 
specially by a boy in the school for this 









TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE. 


ir)o 


article) was pnt up and unveiled 
some short time ago. 

Although, strictly speaking, it 
is not considered one of our 
recogidsed “ public schools,” yet 
the Duke of York’s School, at 
Chelsea, is practically the ‘‘ Public 
School of the Army.” There¬ 
fore it may not be out of place 
to conclude this article ])y re¬ 
minding the reader that there 
was unveiled at this school, oidy 
a short time ago, a charming 
window of stained glass as a 
memorial to “ old boys ” of the 
school who had fallen in battle. 
The ceremony was appropriately 
enough undertaken by the aged 
Duke of Cambridge, whose in¬ 
terest in the school has never 
flagged. The window cost nearly 
and has a representation 
of the Crucifixion, with figures 
of the fighting saints, Saint 
i\fichael and Saint George, at the 
sides. 

Below it, on aii alabaster tablet, 
are inscribed the names of all 
scholars, since the founding of 
the school, who have lost their 
lives in battle. The record has 
been made as complete as pos¬ 
sible, even including the name 
of one of the Lancers who was 
killed at Ouidurmau. 



{^Glenalmond Photographic Club. 


Copyright'plioto by'\ 


WINDOW IN THE SCHOOL CHAPEI., OI.EN ALMOND, IN :\IEMOIiY OF 
LIEUTENANT IL W. HENDEHSON, ENSION J. W. HENDEKSON, KILI.ED 
IN DEFENDlNlr THE 150ATS, CAWNPOIIE, JUNE 27 , 1857 , AND 

LIEUTENANT C. J. LANGLANDS, KILLED AT TAMANGA, IN THE MAOJU 

WAR, 1864 . 



To THE GLORY OF GOD " 1 
AND IN MEMORY OF 

Alexander Cumine Russell 

YOUNGER OF Aden Aberdeenshire 

A STUDENT OF THIS COLLEGE 
l 848 TO 1850 WHO AS AN 
OFFICER OF THE 74 ™ HIGHLANDERS 
AT THE WRECK OF THE BiRKENHEAD 

February 26 ™ 1852 
MET A hero’s death 


Copyright piholo by] \_Glenolinond Photograpddc Club. 

TABLET IN THE SCHOOL CHAPEL, GLENALMOND. 


And this me¬ 
morial, so well 
deserved, must 
undoubtedly help 
to form a connect¬ 
ing bond of no 
small value be¬ 
tween the train- 
ing-school of boys 
who will be tlie 
rank and file of 
our future Army, 
and the schools 
where those youths 
are trained who 
will, as a rule, 
become their 
officers. 

During the 
present Boer war 
we have seen more 
than ever what 
the grand officers 





















154 


THE WTNJJ.WR MAGAZINE. 


turned out from our public scliools Cciii do 
when figlitiiig for Britciiii. AVe have Eoberts 
and Buller from Eton, we have Badeii- 
Powell from 
the Char¬ 
ter li 0 u s e, 
w e h a e 
countless 
‘‘ S t alkjs ” 
from Fettes 
and Loretto, 
from 0 1 cl 
I r e 1 a n d’s 
famous col¬ 
leges, from 
every noted 
E u g 1 i s h 
school. 

Harold Baton, who will be remembered as 
liaviiig died gallantly at Mafekiiig on the 
night of the celebrated sortie, was one of 
Baden-Poweirs favourites, and came from 
lioretto, Scotland’s noted school. And then 
Fettes, not to be outdone by her chief 
competitor for cricket and football honours, 
gave up for Britain’s cause the well-known 
D. B. Moueypeimy, whose career as a foot¬ 
ball player was at one time tlie most promising 
among the many brilliant young men that 
Scotland boasts as her athletic sons. It was 
Paardeberg that saw the end of the player 
of whom Fettes used to be so proud. 

And from Ireland’s Eaplioe and from 
Cork School there came more than one 


of the fine young officers who liave made 
the names of the Dublin Fusiliers and 
the Connaught Eangers veritable household 

words for 
bravery and 
true Celtic 
dasli. Not 
only English 
public 
schools, or 
Scotcli ones, 
but I r i s h 
places of 
e (1 u cation, 
t 0 (.), w’ i 11 
have a fine 
putting -up 
of memorials 
to their brave dead when the present war is 
oyer. There will, no doubt, be a stirriiig-up 
of the old traditions of Londonderry and 
Belfast Colleges, of AAhiterford and I)ublin 
Schools, such as there has not been, in a 
military sense, for a very long period. 

Nobly dead or nobly living, honoured are 
the names of those who, in the words of 
Mr. Newbolt’s fine poein on Clifton Chapel, 
have leai’iied— 

Tu set the Cause above renowu. 

To love the game beyond tlie prize, 

To honour, while you strike him down, 

Tlie foe that comes with fearless eyes. 

To count the life of battle good. 

And dear the land tliat gave you birth. 

And dearer yet the brotherhood 
Tliat binds the brave of all the earth. 


In nicniDFii of moEK vSMms S5€veiiSBP?Di®fi, 
liifDfrnanf KinirK Rojal Kifir corpaf 
goMpat gon of Purkrirt anli honiaa Morffi. 
fora 151'' ottobfr isdi.tillfii at fk kfflr of innop. 
SDDffi Rfrita. PfbFoaiji issi.iohilf rauFiino: loatfr 
to a iB0Dnki3'raan of tik rompani onkr a hraon firr; 


MKMOUIAl. nUASS TO AX OLD OilAKTEUIIOUSK HOY KILLED IX UATTLE. 



Photo hy Newton <& Co.,] [Fleet Street, E.C. 

THE MEIMORIAL WINDOW AT THE DUKE OF YORK’s SCHOOL. 




















PRO PATRIA. 

By MAX PEMBERTON* 

Ilhistmted lij A. Forestier. 


SYNOPSIS OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS. 

This story is related by Captain Allred Hilliard, a young Englishman of considerable means and good social 
position, who is spending some time on the Continent with his friend Fordliam. At Pan, Hilliard became 
acquainted with a Colonel Lepeletier and promptly fell in love with his daughter. ^Vhen the Lepeletiers returned 
to their home in Calais, Hilliard followed them ; but though he had every reason to believe that Agnes Lepeletier 
cared for him, his olfer was positively declined by her father, no reason being assigned. At their house he met 
a man whom he had known, when a boy, as Kobert Jeffery, but who was known as Sadi Martel to the French 
household. Jeft’ery, alias Martel, had deteriorated with years, and was now a man given to drink and 
thoroughly unscrupulous. He invited Hilliard to go with liim and inspect some excavations, purportinsr to be 
harbour works and coal borings, Avhich were being carried on by the shore, and which he was superintending. 
Never for a moment suspcctmg any treachery, Hilliard accompanied him one afternoon to the scene of operations. 

CHAPTER YI. 

THE TUNNEL. 





H A R 8 H 
steam siren, 
blasted for 
two f u11 
m i n 11 t e s 
as we ap¬ 
proached tlie 
month of 
the cutting, 
sent to the 
countless 
w 0 r k in e n 
about me a 
message of release ; and it being then six 
o’clock in the evening they canie pell-mell, 
from the heart of the earth before us as 
it seemed-some crowding in the ballast- 
trucks, some running, some clinging to the 
very buffers of the little engines, some going 
at tlieir ease, as though labour were not 
distasteful to them. That which had been a 
pandemonium of order and metliod became 
in a few moments a deserted scene of enter¬ 
prise. None save the sentries guarded the 
mouth of the pit. Here and there, in the 
chasm below, flares began to burst up in 
garish yellow spirit flames ; but those who 
worked by their light were the chosen few, 
the more skilled artisans, the engineers. 
And as we plunged downward and still down¬ 
ward, the great buttressed wall ever raising 
itself higher above us—even the skilled were 
rarely passed. A tremulous silence prevailed 
in the pit. From the distance there came a 
sound as of the throbbing of some mighty 


* ('opyrigbt, 1900, by Max Pemberton, in the I’^nited 
States of' America. 


engine at work beneath the very sea toward 
which I knew we must be walking. But the 
man who led me downward had no desire to 
gratify my curiosity. Passing from the 
daylight to this cavernous gloom, he had 
become taciturn, morose, strangely self- 
occupied. 

I followed at his heels as we went quickly 
ever down toward the sea. When at last 
the incline of the cutting ceased, and we came 
upon a level way, I could perceive four lines 
of rails running up to platforms as for the 
terminus of a station ; and beyond them the 
narrow mouth of a tunnel which carried but 
two tracks, and seemed to be nothing else 
than a tube of steel th rust into the m ud which 
here co^'ers the chalk of the Channel bed. 
All the lines converged to the tunners 
mouth, but beyond was utter darkness. 
This was our journey’s end, then. 

God knows that even then I dare not ask 
myself the meaning of the things I saw. 
When, without presage, there is revealed to 
us, as in the tAvinkling of an eye, the truth 
of some mystery which appeals alike to tlie 
more terrible phase of our imagination and 
to our fear, we are slow to reckon with that 
truth or to admit it. T set it down that I 
knew from the first instant of inspection the 
whole meaning of that which the French 
contemplated against my country—there, 
seven miles from Calais upon the Paris road. 
But to claim that I realised the moment of 
it, or would embrace the knowledge in my 
innermost mind, would be to boast a pre¬ 
science 1 have no title to. Excited if you 
will, driven to a curiosity which defies any 
measure, telling myself that I should never 


155 





THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


]5() 

live again such an lioiir as this, I followed 
the man to the tnimers month ; I watched 
him kindle a flare at another a workman 
held ; I heard his odd exclamations, that 
racking laugh which no other in all the 
world ever laughed so ill. If my life had 
hecn the stake I must go on. Curiosity 
drove me now as Avith a lash. I neither 
I’easoned nor apologised, for a voice within 
me said. You shall see. 

Jeffery raised the hare and stood an instant 
at the very mouth of the tunnel. The 
waving, ngly light displayed a face hard-set 
as in some exciting memory. Again he 
looked at me as he had looked when I met 
him on the road to Paris. 

“ Honny, ever been in a tnnnel before ? ” 

“ Once, a Metropolitan tnnnel.” 

“ Nasty, eh ? ” 

“ Well, it Avasn’t ])leasant.” 

“ Ah, but you had the dry land aboA’e you 
there. You Avere never nnder the sea, I 
suppose ? ” 

“Not farther than any decent swimmer 
goes.” 

“So! AVe’ll take yon deeper doAvn than 
that. Come on, my boy. It does me good 
to liear you.” 

He entered the’ tunnel upon this and be¬ 
gan to Avalk very quickly, Avhile I, Avhen Ave 
had left the last of the daylight behind us, 
stumbled after him Avith all a neAV comer’s 
ungainliness. Such a glare as his torch cast 
slioAA'Cd me the polished rails of steel, the 
circular roof above us already blackened by 
the smoke of engines; but the track I 
scarcely saw, and tripped often, to Ins 
aninsement. 

“ Miss your eyes, eli. Captain ? Well, 
you’ve got to pay your footing. Listen to 
the music—it’s a train going home to tea. 
You’d better step in liere, my lad—we can’t 
afford to AAnste your precious life like that. 
Do you knoAV you’re standing in Avhat ought 
to be tlie four-foot-six, but isn’t ? Come out 
of it, come out of it.” 

He pulled me from the track to a manliole 
in the aaMI, and crouching there togctlier we 
watched the engine go clattering by, all the 
roof of the tunnel incarnadined Avith the 
gloAving iridescence of the crimson light, 
the very faces of the Avorkmen standing out 
wliite and clear in the gloAV A\diich the torch 
cast upward. But the tunnel seemed shaken 
to its very marrow, and the quiA^ering earth, 
Avhich held the steel, a])]:)eared to liA’e Avhile the 
trucks rolled over it. Again, as often before, 
1 realised the majesty of the engineer’s 
life ; nevertheless, the greater (piestion 


rang unceasingly in my ears, Why had I 
been seduced to this ])lace ? AVhat did the 
French Government Avant Avith a tunnel 
beneath the sea seven miles from Calais 
Harbour ? Heaven is my Avitness that I did 
not dare to ansAver myself—did not dare 
until many hours, nay, days AA’ere lived and 
I could doubt the truth no longer. 

We had come by this time a mile at the 
least, as I judged it, from the tunners 
mouth, and must be very near to the sea, if 
not actually beneath it. By here and there 
upon our Avay Ave passed a soldier patrolling, 
lantern in hand, a section of the tunnel; 
and once, AAdien Ave had gone on again a 
quarter of a mile, Ave found a great bricked 
shaft, at the foot of Avhich men AA^ere hauling 
sleepers and steel rails by the light of a coal 
fire and many flares set about it. The 
picture Avas rude and Avild ; the faces of the 
men sliaped pale and hard-set AAdierever the 
light fell upon them ; the eiiA'ironing dark¬ 
ness, so complete, so unbroken, suggested 
the mouth of some vast, unfathomable pit; 
Avhereunto all this burden of steel and Avood 
Avas cast; AAdierefrom these shadoAvy figures 
had emerged to claim a due of the outer 
Avorld. But the illusion Avas broken AAdien 
Jeffery halted to exchange rapid Avords AAdth 
the men and to giA^e them their directions. 
Again I observed the quick obedience, the 
respect he commanded. Of all that un¬ 
numbered army of Avorkers I had seen, he, 
indisputably, AA-as General. And he knew his 
poAver. 

“ CleA’er chaps, these Frenchies,” he said, 
as he Avent on again. “ Direct them plainly 
and they’ll get there, though they’ve a lot 
to say about it on the road. That shaft 
was an idea of mine, Avhich I’m proud 
of. AYe’ll ventilate there by and by ; mean- 
Avhile the Belgian barges can beach tlieir 
rails and send them doAvn to us. I save tAvo 
days’ labour in three, and that’s lucky in a 
job like this. Are you beginning to Avonder 
where the coal is ? ” 

I ansAvered him by a question. 

“Does the shaft come out on the beach, 
then ? ” 

“ GroAAdng curious, eh ? Well, perha])S, 
Ave’ll go up by it and see as we go ba(;k. 
MeanAA’liilc, you and I must Iuiax a bit of a 
talk for the sake of auld king syne. Sit 
doAvn, siree, sit doAvn. The plank’s not 
exactly AValdorf-Astoria, Imt it’s next door 
to it, seeing you’re in a tunnel.” 

We Avere then, I suppose, the third of a 
mile from the shaft he had spoken of. I 
kneAv that Ave Avere deep doAvn beloAV the bed 



“ A harsh steam siren sent to tlie countless workmen about me a messMii;e ot release.” 









77/A’ WIXDSOn MAGAZINE, 


1 TxS 



of the Channel : and tliere was in the know¬ 
ledge a sense of awe and mystery, and some¬ 
thing beyond awe and mystery—it may be 
something akin to teiTor—wliicli I realised 
then for the first time, but have lived through, 
waking and sleeping, many a day since that 
terrible hour. I was down below the sea 
in a tunnel that struck towards my own 
country. Above me were the I’ippling waves, 
the rolling ships, the flashing lights of the 
l)usiest waterway 
in the world. 

What lay beyond 
in the darkness, 
where the last 
girders of this tre¬ 
mendous high-road 
were to be seen, I 
knew no more than 
the dead. The 
grandeur of it, the 
mystery of it 
muted my tongue, 
fascinated me 
loeyond all clear 
thought. The road 
lay to Ihigland, to 
my home; it could 
not point other¬ 
wise. And I, alone 
of Englishmen,had 
come to a know- 
ledge of the 
mystery. 

Jeffery, I say, 
set his flare in a 
(*revice of the track 
and made a rude 
seat of a couple of 
boards and a bench 
which here stood 
in the six-foot way. 

ACork had been 
progressing at this 
place before the 
siren was blown, I 
imagined, and the 
tools of the men- 
jacks, drills, heavy 
liammers—lay about as a testimony to French 
confusion. My guide pointed to them with 
an ironic.d fingei’, and, kicking a hammer 
from the track, made another bench similar 
to his own for me. 

‘‘Look,” he said; “that’s your Frenchman’s 
love of order. If a ticket were needed for 
the Day of Jurlgment, he’d go aloft without 
it. Sit down, Hilliard, and watch me driidv 
a sup of whisky.” 


lie seated himself on the bench and took a 
long pull from an old black flask, which he 
passed • to me when he had done with it. 
My refusal to drink seemed to annoy him. 
It was an excuse the less for his own 
habit. 

“ AA^ell,” he snap])ed, “ you know best. 
Ent you’ll get little driidv where you’re going 
to. Here’s luck on the road.” 

1 rested my arms on my knees and looked 


him as full in the face as the guttering light 
permitted me. 

“ AA^hat do yon mean by that, Jeffery ? ” 

He laughed to himself, a soft, ])urring 
laugh that meant all the mischief he could 
command. 

“ Hark ! ” he said, raising his hand for 
silence ; “ do yon hear the old girl throb¬ 
bing ? That’s my shield—my own. There's 
some in Eui’ope who would pay a ])enny or 




PRO PATRTA. 


two if I'd make’em another like it. Jlnt I'll 
wait till this job's through. Eh ? sonny, 
wouldn’t yon ? ” 

I did not answer him, but listened to the 
pulsing machine which, at some great distance 
from ns, as I knew it must be, thrust 
its steel tongue into the soft chalk of the 
Channers bed, and cast tons of the earth 
behind it, as though to make a burrow for 
a mighty, liuman animal wliicli thus would 
cheat tlie seas. The tube of steel in which 
we had walked (|uivered at every thrust of tlie 
engine. Nevertheless, I know that the work 
was far away ; for 1 could hear no voices, 
could not even see the twiidvliiig lamps of 
tliose who gave life to the tongue and con¬ 
trolled it. The very sense of distance 
appalled and fascinated in an appeal to the 
imagiiiation surpassing any I had known. 

“ Jeffery,” I said, asking him a plain 
question for the first time, “ why did you 
bring me here ? ” 

“ He answered me as ])lainly, “ To still 
your tongue for evei’.” 

The words (and never a man heard 
six Avords which meant more) Avere spoken 
in that half-mocking, half-serious key A^■hich 
cliaracterised the man. To this hour I 
can see him squatting there upon the 
Avoodeu l)ench, his salloAV face made sardonic 
in the aureole of dirty light, his thin, nervous 
fingers interlaced, his deep-set eyes avoiding 
mine, l)ut seeking, nevertheless, to Avatch 
me. And he had trapped me ! My (Jod ! 
1 tremble now ay hen the pen recalls that 
houi’ I He had trap])ed me, brought me to 
that place because he believed that I had liis 
seci’et, tiie seci’et which France had kept so 
well from all the Avoi'ld. 

Fool I thrice fool I was to folloAv him. As 
one blind I had stumbled on to the mouth of 
th(i abyss ; and now 1 could see the depths, 
could, ill imagination, reel back from 
them appalled. He had trapped me ! 

Me uttered the thi’cat, 1 say, but almost 
in the same breath liegan to question me as 
though the thing had never been spoken. 
While twenty ideas S])rang at once to my 
mind, while the peril quickened my heart 
and brought drops of SAveat to my face, 
he pursued his puiqiose of interrogation 
relentlessly. For all that I kneAV he had 
brought me to the place that I might carry 
from it to a French prison the knoAvledge of 
that Avhich France Avrought against my oavu 
country. Every word he spoke recalled to 
me the ramparts Ave had passed, the patrols 
upon the clifls, the great locked door, the 
Avails which shut in this secret from the Avorld. 


IbO 

No prisoner was ever caged mon* surely. 
Even at that moment of it J said that the 
last day of my liberty might have been lived. 
The Avords which the man spoke Avere as 
drums beating in my ears. 

“8o you came to Ckilais to make love, 
sonny, and the little French girl AA^as to help 
you, eh ? You hocus-pocussed the old man 
and dished him up Avith banknote sauce, eh ? 
You Averen’t at all {inxious about the works— 
oh, no, not at all, and you didn't want to 
come here. Poor little lambs and sheep ! 
How I do like to see thcmi out to grass! Say, 
boy, have a cigarette ? You Avon't get ’em iu 
the fortress.” 

I took the cigarette and Avondered at the 
steady hand Avliich lighted it. My very 
liberty hung upon a thread ; I had the wit 
at least not to break the thread. 

“ Isn’t it about time we dropped this ? ” I 
said at last. “ You know perfectly Avell why 
I came to Calais ? ” 

“As true as the levels of this floor, my 
son. You came to Calais to make love--to 
the harbour Avorks. Do you suppose I’m a 
chump, like Lepeletier ? ” 

“ Lepeletier is a gentleman.” 

“Oh, sti(;k up for your friends. He’d 
have played a good hand for you, siree, lie 
and the other bit of goods. Put I AA'cighed 
in before them, you see. And just in time, 
by-! •’ 

He had told me in a sentence Avhy 
Lepeletier had asked me to leave Calais. 
This man had threatened to denounce his 
friendship for a spy. And Agnes ? But of 
her I Avould not think. 

“ Well,” I said (piietly, “ you make a good 
story of it. The otlier side’s to come. Take 
my Avord as a soldier and a gentleman that 
I knew nothing Avhatever of this business 
until you brought me here to-night. It’s 
your own fault that I ha\'e not gone back to 
England as wise as I came. And Avhat’s the 
offence ? That 1 followed your lead ? If 
it’s no more, you Avon't persuade our people 
to keep their fingers out of this pie.” 

The idea amused him vastly. 

“Your people^—club dandies and Pall 
Mall fools, paid a thousand a year to 
say nothing and do as much ! ]\Ian, you 
know them bettei*. By the time they’v^e cut 
the red tape off your ])acket, you Avill be 
forgotten on the tlealthy Isles, and this 
Avork Avill be Avherc all the Avorld may come 
and see it. Pm living for that day. There 
are some on your side I AA’ant to clean a slate 
for. Your slate’s Avashed, or aaIII be Avheii 
I’ve done Avith you. The others may AA*ait, 



IGO 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


that 8wiiio Hardy am on g tlio nniiil)er. He 
called me a black man, the dirty toad ! ” 

The reminiscence of the old days at 
Woolwich found him in a more dangerous 
mood. Temper began to master him. The 
outstanding veins upon his forehead and his 
liands swelled liorribly. He threw the 
cigarette he liad been smoking to the ground 
and crushed it witli liis heel. Men speak of 
a “ glittering eye ” ; I knew what the ex¬ 
pression meant before he had done with me. 

“ I’ll settle with Hardy, and wring his 
cursed neck, or lie shall wring mine,” he 
continued, Avith growing anger ; ‘‘ that’ll be 
pretty iieAvs to go out to you at Cayenne, 
sonny. By Gosh ! I hope you like hot 
climates. You'll want some summer clothes 
where you’re going to.” 

I heard him with what indifference I 
could affect. There Avas not an instant noAV 
Avhen I did not tell myself that, if I wished 
to see my oAvn country again, I must act then, 
at the beginning of it, or remain impassive 
to the end. He liad trapped me, but a cool 
head might discover a rent in the meshes of 
his net. England seemed far away—out 
beyond the lights of the Channel and the 
ramparts Ave had ])assed. 

“ Let’s IniA'e done Avith it, once and for 
all,” I said at last ; “ has there not been 
enough of this rot ? Just shoAV me the Avay 
to my car, or Bell, my man, Avill have a fever. 
You don’t suppose I’m going to take you 
seriously.” 

The tannt A\^as as coal upon the fire of it. 

“ Why did you come here to spy out my 
Avork ? ” he asked. “ Was it any Imsiness of 
yonrs ? x\re you an Intelligence man, or the 
dandy you pretend to be ? Am 1 ncA'er to 
build a house but some English fool must 
come along and spoil it ? ])on’t lie to me— 
lie to those who’re waiting for you Avhen J 
give the Avord. You’re playing double, and 
you knoAV it.” 

He stood clenching his liands and facing 
me in an outburst of anger AA'hich Avas pitiful 
to see. A single cry of his Avould have 
brought a sentry to the place ; one Avord 
might have sent me to the prisons of France. 
That much I remembered in spite of the hot 
blood of my race. 

“ If you Avill be reasonable for five minutes, 
I Avill siioAv you hoAV I pky double,” said I : 

but it can’t be done here. Come liack to 
my hotel and search my luggage. You are 
not prepared to take my Avord ; let your eyes 
convince you. I came to Calais because Lepe- 
letier Avas here. A little reflection Avould 
make the rest clear to you. Is it not rather 


absurd to make accusations Avhich yon cannot 
support, and Avhich you knoAv to be false ? Do 
me the justice to remember Avhat yon kneAV 
of me at A¥ebb’s. Is a man Avibh my means 
likely to come here prying about your 
affairs ? You knoAV that he is not. Let us 
go up and talk it over. AVe shan’t get any 
farther in this place.” 

The suggestion amused him. He snarled 
an ironic ansAA^er. 

“ No, I guess not, Alfred Hilliard. You’\^e 
gone as far toAvards Northamptonsliire as 
you’i'e likely to go for many a day. My ! 
you make a good story of it! I’m a bit of a 
liar myself, and I recognise the breed.” 

Noav, I have said that I come of a race 
Avhich Avas never knoAvn at any time for a 
Avell-controlled temper. My mother is of 
Irish birth ; my forefathers Avere fox-1 in liters 
and soldiers, jealous in honour, sudden and 
(juick in quarrel. There aaus neAer one of 
them that counted his life at the A alue of a 
])in’s point if honour thereby AA^ere imperilled. 
And all theAAmrld had said that as the fathers 
Avere, so the son. Until this man called me 
a liar I had kept my temper under Avhat 
control I could ; had feinted AA'hen he 
engaged ; had laughed, jested, lieen serious 
or flippant, as his mood-Avas. But the mask 
of prudence fell at a Avord. Had all the 
sentries in Calais been thei’e to hear us, 1 
should have acted as I did upon that spur of 
temper and of honour. 

“ You talk like a fool ! ” I exclaimed, 
holding myself back Avith an effort Avhicli 
cost me much. If f thought you meant a. 
Avord of it I Avould ansAver you differently.” 

He took a step toAvards me and raised a 
clenched fist to my face. His eyes AA'ere 
bloodshot, but lighted by a drunken anger 
Avhich defied his last attempt at self-control. 

'' Liar ! ” he cried ; ‘‘ liar, as you aBvays 
Avere—tliat’s Avhat I mean to say.” 

And that Avas the end of it, foi* the Avords 
had scarcely passed his lips Avhen I struck 
him tAA'ice, and he fell at my feet, Avhite and 
senseless, across the very track he had built. 


CHArTER YTL 

I THIXK TO HEAR THE SEA. 

AA"e aAATike from anger as from sleep, and in 
the clearer light of reason judge ourselves. 
AA^hile the man stood before me, Avhile his 
taunts Avere so many lashes of a Avhip upon 
my lionoiu’, temper and the frenzy of temper 
blinded me. But I aAvokc from the stupor 
as suddenly as it had come upon me. My 



*''I’wonly paces beyond ilie orilice a sentry stood gazini>’ ont over the angry seas of tlie (’hannel." 


daylii>:lifc was tlie g’<iris]i flame of the gutter inti: 
toreli. Xiglit was heyoiul in the utter dark¬ 
ness of the mystery with which, even then, my 
awaking imagination could not cope. 

I had struck the man with all my strengtli, 
and X'ature lias given me a full measure of 
that ; nevertlieless, when he fell senseless be¬ 


fore me, some moments passed lief ore I could 
remember how I came to strike him, or why 
we were in that place. Slowly, link by link, 
I completed the chain of memory. He had 
brought me there upon a pretext. He had 
wished, as I came to see in those saner 
moments, to prove for himself my knowledge 



THE WrHDSOIi MAGAZINE. 


i(;2 

of that wliicli Franco had planned heloAV tlie 
sea at P]scallcs. II is suspicion being aroused, 
he had determined thus to shut my month 
forever. And, in my turn, I had killed him. 
Grod knows I could even believe it was tliat 
—so still he lay, so white, so pulseless. 

They say that in the moments of our 
greatest peril we often act with an odd 
presence of mind and a method which less 
exacting hours could not surpass. Be this 
as it may, I do not see, looking back to that 
night, that if another had struck the man 
down, I, a passer by, could have done more 
than I did. For my first act was to stoop 
and to drag him from tlie rails. Quietly, 
I remember, and methodically, I picked 
up our mackintoshes and our peaked hats, 
Avhich we had cast olf because of the 
stihing air of the tunnel. No doctor standing 
at a liedside could have fingered a pulse more 
leisurely or with more patience. But his 
pulse was still. I thought that I had killed 
hi in, and a shudder, sucli as I pray I may 
never know again, fell upon my limbs and 
sent me giddy and reeling in the darkness. 

I record it that I thought he was dead, 
and for a little while I stood there, lield 
dumb and terror-stricken with the liorror of 
it, and yet unready to admit the truth. When 
ten seconds, perhaps, were numbered, the 
dreadful fear passed as a shadow. The body 
at my feet quivered suddenly in a nervous 
convulsion, the fingers of the hands were 
opened and shut, but clenched no more ; a 
groan escaped the maids lips. No music 
that ever was written could have been sweeter 
music to me than tliat cry of life returning. 
I had been a fool to think him dead, I said. 
Many a man had I seen go down to such a 
blow as mine, and yet be walking with his 
friends before another pair had boxed their 
rounds. As they dell, so had Jeffery fallen. 
Tlie knowledge sent me back upon myself. 
J thought of my own case—of the sea above 
me, and the ramparts I must pass, and the 
lights of England beyond them. For aught 
that I knew, ten seconds might turn the 
scale of my liberty. A distant sound in the 
tunnel, as of a train approaching, sent me to 
my feet witli the leap of a hare startled from 
sleep. The man lived. Fie had but to cry 
out once, and twenty would answer him. T 
said that Destiny had willed this moment of 
respite, and, with all my nerve set upon that 
desperate hope, I turned to the darkness and 
ran headlong—I knew not Avliither, save that 
it was toward the land, away from the pit 
and the intolerable fear of it. 

It was, at the first of it, at least, a flight 


of panic, and so much I do iK)t seek to 
disguise. Judge my case and do me justice. 
For who would have guarded an obedient 
will in the face of all that I had seen and 
heard during one short hour ? liecall the 
scenes one by one as they came before me 
to appal my mind and paralyse my imagina¬ 
tion. To-day I know that those phantoms 
were no phantoms, but truths, momentous 
to my country, written there in the darkness 
for one of the least of her servants to read. 
But then I knew them not at all. More 
than once I could ask myself if I were 
not the victim of some great jest, of 
Jeffery’s drunken humour—if, indeed, I 
had not visited but a coal-shaft, a shaft 
thrust far out under the sea to workings 
there planned by engineers. A truer voice 
of intuition forbade so simple an account of 
it. Always in my ears were the words, 
“You, you are the chosen, yours is the lot, 
by you shall men know.” Belief in a 
mission sent by God, and not of my own 
asking, was, I hold, the guiding impulse of 
much that I did that night. I, an obscure 
officer of Hussars, had robbed France of her 
secret. I hugged it as a precious possession. 
Come what might, I would seek to do my 
duty. 

And so I ran fi’oin the garish light, away 
from the body lying there by the timners 
wall, away upon as desperate a hope as ever 
carried a man to danger. Panic at the 
beginning of it sent me on blindly, almost 
helplessly. Once I fell my lengtli across the 
rails, and lay, while a man might have 
counted twenty, dizzy and breathless. The 
thunder of the approaching ti'ain passed from 
a mere suggestion of sound to the roar as of 
an avalanche. Would those who guided it 
find Jeffery and hear his story ? So did the 
thought play upon my nerves that I stood 
still when T saw the engine’s light, and 
watched it approach that place upon the 
unused track where the flare was lifted. Had 
those upon the train seen the body ? Yes I 
No ! I said that they were stopping, coming 
on. My heart beat quick, faltered, pulsed 
throbbingly. It was beyond bearing. At 
last I sank to the ground and did not dare 
to look. The danger was passed, then ? 
Again my Destiny said “ Yes.” 

The train thundered by, and none of those 
upon it perceived tlie man who crouched low 
to the track and held his breath to count 
the seconds of suspense. A great glow of 
crimson light, bursting upward from the 
furnace, was cast down again by the steel 
roof to show me the faces of the last of the 


PBO PATH I A, 


1(18 


workmen as tliey Averc caiTied swiftly to tlu'ir 
homes and to the light. I saw that they were 
faces intelligent above the common—-faces 
which the dignity of labour had ennobled, 
upon whicli a seal of manhood had been set. 


These were no mere servants of the ganger’s 



■* He fired his rifle tliree times in the air.” 


troop or gathered idlers from the villages, 
but men unmistakably selected for the more 
honourable posts—the chosen, it might be, 
for this tremendous task, the sharers of the 
secret which France had guarded so Avell. 
The lesson which their example taught me 
was quickly learned. From that moment I 


ceased to stumble headlong through the 
tunnel, but went on, erect and thinking. 
As they were called, so might I be. 

[t Avas intensely dark when the engine 
had passed, and I could see that star of 
crimson light Avhich the furnace cast upward, 
diminishing in 
lustre minute by 
minute, until it 
became but a speck 
upon the roof, and 
at last had van¬ 
ished altogether in 
the utter blackness 
of distance. The 
thunder of Avheels 
had noAV become 
but a treml fling 
of the tube about 
me, and that 
ceased at last and 
the nadir of silence 
Avas touched. 
Every drop of 
Avater that dripped 
to the floor Avas a 
great sound above 
that stillness. A 
((uickeued imagin¬ 
ation so deceived 
me that I thought 
to hear the sea 
rolling npon its 
bed of shingle 
ahoA’e my head, 
and believed tliat 
1 could distinguish 
the melancholy 
cry of the wind 
and the beat of the 
AvaA^es. From time 
to time I stood to 
listen for the 
sound of steps or 
the echoes of a 
voice—but heard 
nothing. The dis¬ 
tant engine, far 
aAA'ay beloAV the 
Channel’s bed, 
had ceased to 
throb. 1 stood 
alone, but never farther from my liberty. 

A fool’s hopes, a driven man’s desire— 
tliese sent me on. Behind me lay the man 
Avho had brought me to the trap : before me 
Avere the ramparts and the sentries and the 
])risons of France. I kueAV that I could not 
])ass the ramparts ; iieA'ertheless, I Avent on. 


77 //*; wixDsoii magazim:. 


1 (;4 


Courage of a 8orb made my ste]) iiujre sure. 
I \Yas ashamed of nothing, did nob fear any 
man’s story, was willing to tell my tale to 
all the world. Xevertlieless, [ understood 
from the first that I must seek to tell it in 
England, and not in France. For what 
meed of justice might I look for at the 
hands of those who guarded this insurpassahle 
secret ? They would silence me at any cost. 
My life would not be worth a grain of sand 
against the tremendous purpose which had dic¬ 
tated this endeavour. They would riskany accu¬ 
sation, any crime, to stamp out this accident 
of Destiny wliei’ehy one, wlio least deserved 
to know, had come to the possession of full 
knowledge. And T, in turn, must call upon 
every gif't that Heaven had gi\'en me that 
1 might proclaim the truth. An excitement 
of the purpose sent me on again with beating 
heart toward the ramparts and the light. 

I was alone in. the tunnel, I say, and I 
knew that the 
great air-shaft 
we had passed 
in our journey 
must now be 
very near i 
place where 
stood. great 
sense of relief 
came to me of 
the assurance 
that the sea no 
longer beat 
above my head. 

There would be 
air at least from 
this point on¬ 
ward, and a 
glimpse of the 
sky above me. 

So great was the 
expectation of 
it that I ran on 
((uickly, saying 
that 1 would 
tell the sentries 
this or tliab, or 
would avoid 
tliem by scaling 
the wall of the 
enclosure, or 
would demand 
bo be- sent to 
Colonel Jj.epele- 
tier himself. 

True it was that 
a vision of a 
face came to 


me for an instant, as some imnnory of hap[>i- 
ness past, of an old state of life lost for ever. 
Never more w ould x4gnes and I meet as we 
had met. This barrier of the mystery lay 
between us as a gulf no merely selfish impulse 
might bridge. A heavy burden of my Destiny 
lay upon me then. I did not dare to think 
of it. Lights and the voices of men called 
me back from the dreamland to the tunnel. 
I was alone no longer. 

It is a rare experience to stand in doubt 
and fear and to await the approach of those 
in whose hands our fate is. When first I 
saw the lanterns and heard the voices, I was 
without plan, or word, or intention. AVhoever 
they were, these patrols had entered the tunnel 
from the shaft 1 approached so expectantly ; 
their lanterns struck a sudden glow on the 
blackness, and where all had been intensely 
dark, ten seconds ago, there was now the 

Ly this already 
1 could dis¬ 
tinguish the 
shadows of 
three, and I 
knew that they 
mnsb pass me, 
must see me. 


conld not fail, 
it might be, to 
challenge me. 
Nevertheless, I 
had no plan in 
my mind, no 
thought of it, 
])ut stood there 
as one resource¬ 
less and beaten. 
This, and this 
only, could be 
the outcome of 
my flight. 
Challenge, dis- 
(;overy, arrest. 

1 repeated the 
words as the 
men drew near. 
Then, as upon 
an impulse, 1 
drew my cape 
a b out m y 
shoulders and 
walked straight 
toward them, 
by them, past 
them toward 
the shaft and 
the tunnel’s 
mouth. 


dimmer of a candle’s light. 



set my face toward ('alais and ran a race sucli as it is given 
few to run." 










riw PAT HI A. 


165 


2Ionsieur Martel^ Momieur Martel, oh 
esf Jourdain ? ” 

I halted at the \voi*ds, spoken in provincial 
French, but did not turn toward the speaker, 
the shortest of the three and the one who 
carried the wavering lantern. Why had he 
called me Martel ? Had the darkness 
deceived him, then ? Inconceivable decep¬ 
tion ! And yet he called me Martel. 

“ II est la has,"' I said, distinctly, again 
upon the impulse. And what folly, for who 
could not distinguish the voices ? But, 
miracle of words, the three cried ‘‘ JAvr/,” 
and passed on. 

They Avould find Jeffery’s body in ten 
minutes, I said. And they had called me 
Martel. 

They had called me Martel and let me 
pass. AYell, in the darkness it was not 
inconceivable, after all. Jeffery’s hair was 
black—so was mine. I had the advantage 
of him in inches, but 1 stooped, perchance, 
when they passed by. He spoke French with 
sufficient accent; 1 spoke it as at Stratford- 
atte-Bowe, yet with enough of grammar to 
suffice. And our clothes ? We were both 
wearing mackintoshes and peaked caps. 
Abstractedly I felt about my cap to ^■eri^'y 
the assumption. But my hand touched a 
gold shield as it fingered the rim- and then 
I knew. In the darkness 1 had picked up 
Jeffery’s cap ; my own lay yonder, where the 
patrol would find it presently. I laughed 
ironically at the thought. 

This little thing, this unguided act, had 
saved me from the men. Ihit, was it “ un¬ 
guided,” or did the hand of Destiny direct 
my own ? I could not answer. 

The man’s hat was on my head, sure 
enough ; I wore a black cape such as he had 
worn ; the darkness and the circumstance of 
the place served for the rest. And do you 
wonder that many wild schemes leaped to 
my brain as it dwelt upon this fortuitous 
rencontre ? If the ])atrol passed me in the 
tunnel, why should T not pass the sentry at 
the gate ? True, there would be the light of 
arc lamps there—for often had they shone 
down upon me as I returned, belated, to 
Calais upon my motor. There would be arc 
liglits and the patrol of the enclosure, and 
the guardians of the inner ward and the 
guardians of the outer. My plot ebbed 
away as a burn in the sand. A miracle 
alone could 0 ])en the great gate to me, I 
said. And tliese are not the days of 
miracles. 

So behold me again racked with, the 
doubt of it. At every step 1 took now my 


ears were bent for any sound t!iat should 
speak of Jeffery’s reco\'ery, or of the alarm 
that must succeed the finding of his body. 
The men must have come to the place by 
this time—must, must, I argued. Nerved 
that would respond to every sound made new 
phantoms for me in the recesses of the tunnel. 
I thought often to hear the cries of pursuit 
and of discovery. AYhen (and this is as 
surprising as any change wrought in a theatre) 
a great flood of light suddenly shone out 
about me, the fear of it chilled my veiy 
lieart. Good Heavens ! that I should set it 
down ! It was nothing but the lighting of 
tlie tunnel, the white and radiating glow of 
the arc lamps, which, I imagined, were 
lighted thus after sunset every day of the 
year. And now they shone in countless 
globes of tlie blue-white iridescence—far 
away, until they were but stars beneath the 
depths of the sea. I caught my breath again 
and went on. There were men in the dis¬ 
tance, but their backs were toward me. And 
I was at the very foot of the shaft I sought. 
The clear light showed it plainly—a great 
bricked chimney, shooting upward to the air 
{uid the life above. Could I but mount 
there, how easy it would be to escape the 
ordeal of the gate ! Aye, if—if, tlie eternal 
if ! And what of the sentry at the shaft’s 
head ? It was a hundred to one that such a 
danger spot would not go unwatched. I 
admitted the truth with indifference. The 
three had called me Martel. 

A great arc lamp made day in the shaft 
and showed its layers of blue bricks as clearly 
as in the sunlight. I espied no ladder there, 
but a pulley rope hung loose, and I remem¬ 
bered as I stood that I had gone to the mast¬ 
head many a time upon my schooner yacht, 
and thought no more of it than any gym¬ 
nastic trick which good muscles and the right 
use of them make possible. To fix the loose 
rope to one of the heavy sleepers lying there 
was the work of a moment. After all, what 
was it to grasp at this way of tlie rope—what 
was it, when any minute 1 might hear the 
alarm from the tunnel, when discovery 
walked cheek by jowl with me at every step 
I took ? liOt me claim nothing of the attempt. 
I would have risked my life twenty times to 
escape the dread of that pit. And here was 
a means to my hand. When next I thought 
of it I had climbed twenty feet and could 
see tlie stars far above me. Oh ! how the 
freshening air lilew sweet upon my face ! 
Upward and upward towai’d my liberty. Did 
they cry after me in the tunnel below ? 
Once I thought so, and clung nervelessly to 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


ifu; 

the rope, while it swayed from side to side, 
and I had time to remember that a failing 
nerve miglit send me headlong back into the 
pit. Anon it seemed to me that no one 
cried ont, and that the voice was but the 
ripple of the sea on the beach above me. 
Again my courage came back, as npon a 
freshet of hope. Though my untrained 
hands were bleeding, and my knees barked 
by the bricks, I went up, up, slowly, surely ; 
and at every hand-pull now the face of the 
sentry above came nearer. Fear showed me 
the figure of a man gaping down at me as I 
climbed. I looked the second time and saw 
but the stars. There was the blue of the 
early night still in the sky. The phantom 
figure appeared no more. I was but two 
feet from the orifice. 

Slowly now, and with every faculty 
quickened, I climbed that space intervening. 
Yonder, above the cap of bricks and the 
circular month, I should find the sentry, 
should be challenged, questioned, arrested. 
No other hope seemed possible. And yet 
men had called me Martel. They were those 
who had passed me in the tunnel to hear 
tJeffery’s story and to raise the alarm. Aye, 
in truth, I thought to hear the voices again, 
there, at the vital moment of it all. Low 
at first as a sonorous whisper from the tunnel, 
the note gained strength and volume, became 
an unmistakable cry, was not to be set down 
any longer to imagination or to fear. 

The three had found Jeffery, the alarm 
was raised ! 

I said as much, and leaped from the shaft’s 
mouth, desperately, to the grass of the cliff. 
Twenty paces beyond the orifice a sentry 
stood gazing out over the angry seas of the 
Channel. 13ut he did not challenge me, and 
I lay upon the p’ass as one dead, counting 
the minutes until he would hear the voices. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

OUT OF THE SHADOWS. 

I HAD always assumed that the shaft was 
nothing but a ventilator thrusting itself up 
to the cliff’s head as near as might be to the 
sea. As I lay upon the ground, waiting for 
the sentry to hear the alarm, a quick survey 
made my environment clear to me. I was 
thirty paces from the seashore, perhaps, 
three miles, it might be, from my man and my 
car. The low chalk cliffs here'fell away, to 
show me the wet beach by the Cape they call 
lUanc-Nez, and the long line of white waves 
which marked the ebbing tide. A heavv 


rampart of stone defended the shaft on the 
seaward side, and was now patrolled by the 
sentry I must pass. I was still in the third 
or last of the enclosures, and tlie cutting by 
which the tunnel was gained lay far beliind 
me—a mile, perhaps two, for my sense of 
locality is poor. But here, as in-shore, I 
perceived that a close patrol shut the works 
to strangers. Lanterns danced at changing 
points upon the outer wall. I could hear the 
voices of other sentries challenging other 
passers by. The man avIio stood twenty paces 
from the shaft had kept his eyes towards the 
sea and the empty beach below us. It would be 
odd, I said, to watch him when he heard the 
alarm. Yet that he must do, for those below 
were crying loudly now. He would hear 
them Avhen five seconds had passed—or ten. 

A great litter of lumber lay about the 
orifice, and I have often said that I owe my 
life to it. From the moment when breath 
came back to me, and with breath the new 
courage of the fresliness and the exciting sea 
breeze (for it had ceased to rain now, and 
there was a wonderful night of stars, as poor 
Stevenson has put it so finely), I espied the 
stacks of timber, the heavy steed girders, the 
earth in heaps, the ovei’plns of labour. Upon 
my hands and knees, yaixl by yard, in as odd 
a situation as man ever found himself, I 
crawled to tlie shelter of a huge girder ; and 
through the interstices of the lalticed metal 
I Avatched tlie sentry. He lieard them now— 
he must hear them. Tlie wail of the wind 
rose and fell incessantly, but for me the 
sound of voices in the pit prevailed above 
it. What would the fellow do Avhen the 
alarm was raised ? I asked myself. How 
deaf he was ! Twice he ivalked to the 
buttress of the rampart, twice he returned. 
He would never hear, then ; it was all my 
iinagination, the voice ivas the voice of the 
night, not of men. 

Suspense, they say, is the enemy of time, 
making hours of minutes and years of days. 
Until that night of nights I had known little 
suspense in my life, and the truth ivas new 
to me. But I learned the lesson in the 
moments that followed upon my flight,learned 
it so u’ell that if I lived, a hundred years I 
might not forget it. Looking back to that 
hour to-day, I can admit that no more than 
five minutes passed between my leap from 
the shaft’s mouth and the loud note of alarm 
upon the cliff about me. But each of those 
minutes was to me an houi* of waiting. So 
unendurable did the doul)t become, that 
when the sentry heard the voices at last, I 
verily believe I wished that he should hear 



PRO PAT nr A. 


107 


them. Xow, at last, the glove was thrown 
down. Xow, if ever, 1 must plav for my 
liberty as I had never played before, nor 
might look to play again. 

He heard the cry at his second turn upon 
the rampai’t, and for an instant stood as one 
under a spell. Then, bawling with, all his 
lungs to another who patrolled the cliff west¬ 
ward towards Oris-Nez, he ran to the shaft- 
head and answered those who were clainonr- 
ing below. Under other circumstances I 
shonld have laughed at the very Babel which 
arose. Gesticnlating, though none could see, 
now running a little way to the sea, now back 
again to the shaft, at last one clear idea 
possessed the man, and he fired his rifle three 
times in the air and set off as one possessed, 
ill-shore, toward the great gate and the Paris 
road. I watched him as though a great 
weight Avere carried by him from my own 
shoulders. For, running, he left the way to 
the sea open, and by the sea shonld the gate 
of my liberty be found. 

It was a great hope, and it sent me from 
my hiding-place with a better courage and a 
clearer head than I had known from the 
beginning of it. Providence alone, I said, 
had compelled the sentry thus to take the one 
road which wonld serve me best. True, the 
rampart defending the works, the rampart 
shaped like a fort at the cliff’s head, had yet 
to be crossed, and a way found to the beach 
below. But had not Jeffery spoken of Belgian 
barges coming njion the tide to discharge their 
cargoes there ? and how could they discharge 
them if there were no connecting liiik between 
the sands and the heights ? All my common 
sense helped me to confidence. Tliere wonld 
be a ladder, a scaffold there. 

Vs ithont it the work could not go on. As 
a hnntcd man, I ran to and fro upon the 
rampart, seeking the ladder upon whose rungs 
freedom was to be won. Beason could not 
lie, 1 argued. There was a ladder, if I could 
but espy it. And then, in the dark, I 
blundered upon it, went over the parapet 
almost in my impatience. My instinct was a 
true one. There was a ladder, and luck went 
doun it with me, even then, at the crisis of 
pursuit. The sentry’s rifle had been answered 
by others, some near, some far away, almost in 
the outer workings. I heard a bell ringing 
mid the sliriller blast of whistles and the cry¬ 
ing of men to men ; but I was down upon 
the sea-beach then, and the lights of the pass¬ 
ing ships, even the splendid rays of the Fore¬ 
land, were my beacons. Had the tide been in 
that night, God knows what the end would 
have been. But it was at its very el)b. The 


white line of the crested seas advanced and 
fell at least a quarter of a mile from the out- 
spurs of the cliffs. X^ot a living soul was down 
there upon the dark sands at such an hour. 
Stumbling (cursing if you will), now at the 
zenith of hope, now despaii’ing again, I set 
my face toward Calais and ran a race such as 
it is given few to run. The stake Was liberty ; 
the consequences of capture—well, I tried‘to 
forget those. 

Silence, such a silence as I could well 
account for, fell upon the works behind me 
as I drew toward the higher cliff's which mark 
Blanc-X'ez. Those who had raised the alarm, 
I said, were now busy n])on a. hue and cry 
which would be the talk of all Calais to¬ 
morrow. It amused me to imagine the 
troopers scouring the high-roads, to follow in 
imagination those who listened to Jeffery in 
the tunnel and searched every yard of it again 
and once again. Would they look shoreward 
or toward the sea, I asked myself ? Wonld 
they follow the tunnel to its end ? and, if they 
did so, to what point below the sea would 
such a journey carry them ? Was it to be 
believed that the unseen engine, which day 
and night thrust its mighty antennm deep 
down beloAv the fretful Channel, stood already 
far out toward the English shore ? Such a 
thing might be, I reasoned. Xo reader of 
these lines could share the conflicting 
eniotions of that argument. I saAV, in the 
pictures of my mind, the witness to an 
ambition more subtle, more dangerous, surely, 
than any Avith Avhich a nation has occupied 
itself. ^ I saw, as in a A'ision, the depths of 
that pit filled Avith armed men, Avhose foot¬ 
steps Avere muted by the angry seas, AA'hose 
hopes, AA’hose arms, Avere turned tOAA’ard my 
OAvn country. The dream of one who had 
been frightened by a jest, yon say ? I tried 
to think so as I raced for my life that night 
toAvai’d Blanc-Xez and the open country 
beyond. I tried to say, ‘‘ Fool, fool! face 
it out ; have doneAvith it.” And yet I Avent 
on at all my speed. T did not knoAv then 
Avhy I went ; but the instinct of flight Avas 
sure, irresistible. I must get back to England, 
nothing must inteiTene. 

There is a gap in the cliff' beyond Cap 
Blanc-Xez, a gap and a bridle-path leading 
npAvard to the pastures of a farmhouse 
there. When I came to the gap (such a one 
as you may see at Dumpton, in Thanet), I 
stood, breathless yet alert, to reflect upon 
my situation. Did I folloAV the beach 
further, I shonld find myself presently amid 
those sand-hills which are the dreary 
ramparts of Calais n])on its Avestern side—a 


1(18 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


desert land abounding in dykes and canals 
and marshy swamps. Those dykes uo man 
could pass, oi‘, passing, could not escape 
observation in the intricate paths beyond. 
All my argument sent me to the upland of 
the cliff and the open fields, wherein, at least, 
there would be many a hiding-place, many a 
befriending hedge. By whatever gate I 
entered Calais, it must not be a harbour gate 
or by any avenue from the sea. A child 
would have known that much, and 1 was a 
child in idea no longer. All my faculties 
were sharpened beyond any point in my 
experience. There was an exultation of the 
night I could not explain. Standing upon 
the cliff’s edge and looking out over the 
moonlit beach and the lonely sea, looking 
out toward the lights of England, my 
country, I said that I had cheated France 
once and would cheat her once again. And, 
witli that for my watchword, 1 turned my 
face toward the pastures and went doggedly, 
stnl)bornly on—I knew not whither, if it 
were not toward the light. 

Heavy fields, dark paLhs, fallow land, 
through wheat, through barley, now with 
clumsy steps over difficult ground, again 
with new energy where the ginss was good, 
by such I sought my safety when I had 
(putted the sea and turned my steps shore¬ 
ward. Often I Avas haunted by phantom 
figures, the unreal shapes of horsemen 
galloping over the darkened fields, the sudden 


apparitions in the shadows of a spinney, the 
imagined ])ursuers whose cries clamoured in 
my ears. But all was my fancy—for 1 Avas 
alone there ; alone Avith the clear, Avhite light, 
alone Avith the sleeping cattle, and the 
startled sheep, and the horses that galloped 
fearsomely as they heard my steps. And no 
longer could I reckon with direction or 
locality. I must escape the men, I said— 
always that and nothing more. Though 
fatigue began to weigh upon me, and my 
step was sloAver, and 1 said that I had come 
to the end of effoit, my purpose stood 
unshaken. F must get back to England. 

A A'agner sense of locality, an odd singing 
in my ears, the sudden consciousness that, 
uiiAvittingly, I had ([uitted the fields and 
struck upon a road, brought me to a stand 
at last as at a challenge of my I'eason. A\ hat 
road Avas it, then ? I peered about, yet 
could make nothing of it. Yonder in the 
distance the lights of (’alais beckoned me as 
to a prison. Ear away, out of the shadows 
of the moonlight, I could distinguish a 
carriage upon the hillside, and a pair of 
ponies that drew it. Who would be abroad 
ill such a place and such a carriage ? Again 
and again, as though my head had been 
muddled by a. liloAv, I asked myself that 
(piestion. AVho came toAvard Calais iu a 
pony carriage at that time of night ? 
“ Great God ! ” I. cried at length, ‘‘ if it Avere 
Agnes ! ” 


(JIo he conUmied.) 







THE BIGGEST ENGINE IN THE WORLD. 


By Herbert C. Fyfe. 


O NE is not at all surprised to learn 
that the largest locomotive in the 
world liails from the United States. 
America is the land of big things ; and when 
a writer in a transatlantic paper claimed the 
other day that his country eclipsed all others 
in the number of its structures, both in civil 
and mechanical engineering, that could claim 
tlie distinction of being “ the biggest in the 
world,” he was probably not far wrong in 
his assertion. 

By the kindness of Mr. 1). A. Wightman, 
the general manager of the Pittsburgh 
Locomotive and Car Works in Pennsylvania, 


forms part of the Carnegie system and con¬ 
nects the Duquesne Furnaces, Homestead 
Steel Works, and the Edgar Thomson Steel 
Works. Four miles of the line are built on 
a grade of 70 ft. to the mile, and another 
stretch of the road (about 2,000 ft.) is built 
on the unusually heavy grade of 2*7 per 
cent. The estimated tractive force of the 
115-ton Pittsburgh locomotive is 53,280 lb., 
and the estimated hauling capacity on a 
practically level track is about 6,650 tons. 
The hauling capacity on a level of 6,650 tons 
represents a train of 166 box-cars loaded with 
wheat. The total lengtli of such a train 





TIIK L.VItGKST KNGINK IN THK WOULD—WKIGMT OK liN(;iNK .AND TIONDEK TOiiETIIKU, 167 TONS. 


we are enabled to present our readers with 
some pliotograpbs of a mammoth freight 
locomotive wliich lays claim to the title of 
the largest in the world. These photographs 
are here published for the first time, and 
tliey will probably come as a revelation to 
English readers wlio are not accustomed to 
the sight of the enormous engines wliich are 
so common in the United States. We are 
also indebted to Mr. Wightman for some 
interesting facts about the engine. 

This locomotive is unquestionably the 
most powerful ever constructed. It has been 
built quite recently by the Pittsburgh Loco¬ 
motive and Car Works for the Union Kail- 
road Company, of Pittsburgh, and is now at 
work on a' short stretch of line between 
Munhall and North Bessemer, Pa., which 


would be 5,7(M) ft. — considerably over a 
mile ; and the wh(‘at would represent, at an 
average of fifteen bushels to the acre, the 
])roduct of 9,000 acres, or over fourteen 
sijuare miles of land. This enormous load 
could be taken over the road—or, rather, 
the level portion of it—at a comfortable 
speed of ten miles an hour. 

As an American contemporary has re¬ 
marked, he would have seemed a bold 
prophet to our forefathers who would have 
dared to foretell that at the close of this 
century we should have steam horses that 
could cart away the product of fourteen square 
miles of the countryside at a load, and do it 
at a gait faster than that of the local mail 
coach. 

The unique photograph wliich is repro- 

N 


169 





















170 THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



THE MAMMOTH LOCOMOTIVE COMl’AUEI) WITH THE YARD ENGINE. 


diicecl oil page 171. was specially taken in 
order to give an idea of the immense size of 
the parts of the locomotive. Tt sliows the 
little yard engine mounted on the cylinders 
of the mammoth Pittsburgh engine. The 
small engine was lifted to its perch by tlie 
shop crane. It is standing on the cylinder 
casting, Avhich weighs 8| tons as against a 
weight of 6^ tons for the yard engine. The 
cylinders of the latter are G in. by 10 in. ; 
its gauge is 24 in.; the diameter of the boiler 
24 in. ; driving wheels 2GJ in. ; tractive 
force 1,888 lb. 

Tlie cylinders of tlie mammoth locomotive, 
which are 28 in. in diameter, are only 1 in. 
less than the diameter of the yard engine 
boiler (24 in.). Its drivers are 54 in. in 
diameter; its steam pressure is 200 lb. ; its 
tractive power 26i tons ; its heating surface 
is 8,822 sq. ft. ; and its hauling capacity 
on the level G,G50 tons. 

The cylinders of the Pittsburgh locomotive 
are of the half-saddle type, made heavy, and 
liave great depth longitudinally. A steel 
plate If in., and of the same width as the 
bottom of the saddle, extends across, and is 
bolted to tlie lower frames, and to tlie plate 
as well as to the frames. The cylinders are 


securely fastened. Heavy bolts passing 
through the top frame-bars at the front and 
back of the saddle form additional transverse 
ties and relieve the saddle casting from all 
tensile strains. Its longitudinal strains, 
usually transiiiitted to cylinders through 
frames, are largely absorbed by the use of a 
casting extended from the bulfer-bcam well 
up to the saddle and securely bolted to the 
top and bottom frames. This casting also 
acts as a guide for the bolster-pin of the 
truck. The above method of relieving 
cylinders of longitudinal stress was intro¬ 
duced by the Pittsburgh Locomotive Works 
nearly two years ago, and has proved, in 
practical use on a large number of locomotives, 
to be of great value in reducing the breakage 
of saddle castings. The frames are 4^ in. 
wide. They were cut from rolled steel slabs 
made by the Carnegie Steel Company, and 
weigh 8-J tons per pair when finished. 

America has always been famous for her 
huge locomotives, and in recent years several 
of these monstei’s have been turned out in 
the difiFerent yards. jMention may be made 
of— 

1. The 1 )ecapod Tank 1 locomotive, specially 
constructed for the St. Clair Tunnel. 



THE FRAME OF THE MAMMOTH LOCOMOTIVE. 











171 


THE BIGGEST ENGINE IN THE WORLD. 


2. The Twelve-Wheel Locomotive, con¬ 
structed for the Northern Pacific Raili*oad 
Company. 

3. The Decapod Erie Locomotive. 

4. The Pennsylvania, Class H, No. 5, Con¬ 
solidation Locomotive. 

5. The Twelve-Wheel Locomotive, con¬ 
structed for the Great Northern Railroad Co. 

6. The Pittsburgh Consolidation Mammotli 
Locomotive, the “ largest in the world,” witli 
which we are dealing in this article. 


1G7 tons. The total length over all of 
engine and tender is 03 ft. 3^ in. The 
centre of the boiler is 9 ft. 3f in. above the 
rails, the top of tlie boiler is 13 ft., and tlie 
smokestack loi ft., above the rails. The 
driving-axle journals are 9 in. by 12 in., and 
the main crank-pieces 7 in. by 7 in. d'he 
steam-ports are If in. wide by 20 in. long, 
while the exhaust-ports are 3f in. by 20 i!\ 
The tender has a capacity of 5,000 gallons 
of wvater and 10 tons of coal. 



TIFK SMALL YARD KNGINIO MOUNTED ON THE CYLINDERS OF THE MAMMOTH LOCOMOTIVE. 


In the following table we give a compari¬ 
son of these big freight locomotives with one 
another. 




Total 

Biam. 

Stroke 


Total 

lieating 

of 

of 


weight. 

surface. 

cylinders. 

cylinder 

No. 1 

180,000 lb. 

2,411*8 sq. ft. 

22 in. 

*28 in. 

„ 2 

186,000 „ 

2,943*4 „ 

23 ,, 

30 „ 

„ 3 

195,000 ,, 

2,443*1 „ 

16 „ 

28 ,, 

„ 4 

198,000 ,, 

2,917 

23 „ 

28 „ 

„ 3 

•212,750 „ 

3,280 ., 

21 ,, 

34 

„ 3 

230,000 „ 

3;322 ;, 

23;, 

32 „ 


The tender is of the standard type and 
weighs when loaded 52 tons, so that the weight 
of the engine and tender in w^orking order is 


AiiKuican engineers indignantly deny that 
in the construction of the “ biggest in the 
wwld” they are influenced by" a desire to 
build big things for the mere sake of their 
Ijigness, and to pander to the curiosity of the 
public, who are naturally interested in know’- 
ing that such and such a piece of engineer¬ 
ing has “beaten the record.” The U.S. 
engineer will tell you that huge machines 
like the Pittsl)urgh locomotive are big 
because it has been found that it pays to 
make them big. “ The Pittsburgh Consolida¬ 
tion Engine,” writes one of these engineers. 








THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE 



Till-: SMALL YARD KNLINK llAULINCi TIIK CYLINDKRS OF TIIK MAMMOTH LOCOMOTIVE 


‘‘ weighs iiiiie tons more tlian tlie Great 
Northern Mountain Locomotive, not because 
the Carnegie Steel Company wished to ‘ beat 
the record ’ by possessing the biggest freight 
engine in the world, but for the very practical 
reasons that the Company wished to have 
their freight at the least possible cost per 
ton, and the clearances of the road on whicli. 
it was to run, and tlie strength of the bridges 
it would liave to cross, allowed a locomotive 
of this size and weight to be used.” 

Readers may perhaps be inclined to ask 
why it is that our Englisli railway companies 
do not go in for such mammoth locomotives 
if the American companies find thein so 
much more economical tlian smaller engines. 
It may be taken that the continually increas¬ 
ing size of American engines is due to the 
desire to secure the most economical results 
in operation. Anyone can readily under¬ 
stand that it is preferalde to haul a heavy 
train with a single engine rather than two 
light trains with light engines. The work¬ 
ing of the line is simplified and the number 
of men employed is less. 

The reason we do not go in for a 
larger type of engine o^'er here is because 
the restrictions to size on the English rail¬ 
roads, in the way of low bridges, narrow 
tunnels, and bridges of limited carrying 
power, are such as to prohibit the use of the 
huge express freight engines which arc 
common in the United States. 

And yet there are not wanting xlmericans 
who criticise adversely the tendency of 
locomotives to grow bigger and bigger. As 
a recent writer put it, ‘‘ In the United States 
the question of the weight of locomotives 
is generally settled witliout paying much 


attention to the protests of the engineer in 
charge of the track, except to get his 
assurance that his bridges are strong enough 
to carry the increased weight. In Europe, 
however, and especially in England, the 
engineer in charge of the permanent way is 
almost invariably a much more important 
personage than the locomotive superintendent, 
and his veto is often successfully interposed 
where it is proposed to build engines heavier 
than he considers good for his tracks and 
road-bed. It is probably due to this Avise 
conservatism that the tracks of the main line 
of the London and North-A estern Raihyay 
are ahvays in such magnificent condition 
Avith apparently but little effort. Thus the 
celebrated ‘ Lady of the Lake ’ class ^ of 
locomotives, AALich have hauled the Irish 
and Scotch mail-trains for so many years, 
Aveighed in their original form only a 
little OA’er 60,000 lb. in Avorking order. 
These engines had single driving-Avheels, 
7| ft. in diameter, Avith 16 in. by in. 
cylinders. Even though some of them have 
])een rebuilt during the" past feAV years, they 
noAV Aveigh in AVorking order only slightly 
over 65,000 lb., AAdiile the heaviest express 
passenger engine on the London and North- 
AVestern system Aveighs 101,020 lb.” Com¬ 
pared AA’itii the Aveight of the Pittsburgh 
jMammoth Locomotive (2:10,000 lb.), this is, 
of course, verv little indeed. 

President Charles P. Clark, of the New 
ATrk, NeAv Haven, and Hartford Railroad, 
Avhen asked Avhat had impressed him most 
forcibly during his recent trip to Europe, 
replied that he came home Avith the con- 
Anction that both engines and trains in the 
United States Avere generally heavier than 






THE BIGGEST ENGINE IN THE WORLD, 


173 


they need he, and that, so far as he was 
concerned, he would do his best to devise 
some plan of lightening the dead load of 
engines and trains on tlie railway with which 
he was connected. He felt sure that the 
advantage of such a refoi'in, wherever 
practicable on American railways, in pre¬ 
serving the track in good condition, was too 
obvious to require comment. 

Bnt if xinierica is the land of big things, 
it is also the land of small things. ^ As 
if to show his versatility, the American 
engineer boasts that he has constructed the 
smallest engine in the world. iVt the recent 
“ Trans-Mississippi and International Expo¬ 
sition,” at Omaha, one of the attractions 
was “ The Smallest Passenger Train in the 
AYorld.” This diminutive train was con¬ 
structed by Mr. Thomas E. McGarigh, of 
Niagara Falls, and he claimed that it was the 
smallest ever built for the conveyance of 
passengers. The locomotive (which weighed 
bnt ()()0 lb.) was in every respect a faithful 
reproduction of the parts and working of a 
full-sized passenger locomotive. 

But even this tiny engine is said to be 
eclipsed by another, also built for the actual 
haulage of a train containing passengers. 
On Young and McShae’s piei’ at Atlantic 
City, New Jersey, is a notice-board which 
states that there is to be seen on the pier 
the “Smallest Train in the World for Carry¬ 
ing Passengers ; fare live cents.” 

The immense size of the American con¬ 
tinent, and the variety of conditions that 
have to be met, tend to make the engineers 
on the other side of the hei’ring-pond more 


resourceful than those of the United King¬ 
dom. Many unusual forms of locomotives 
are to be met with, in the States, but each is 
designed for some specific })iirpose. On the 
Mexican Central llailway there is a very 
curious locomotive in opei’ation. It was 
designed by Mr. F. W. Johnstone, super¬ 
intendent of motive power of this railway, 
and was built by the Rhode Island Loco¬ 
motive Works, at Providence. It was made 
for special service in drawing freight-trains 
over heavy grades and curves on certain 
parts of the road, and in appearance it is 
much like a couple of locomotives backed uj) 
together, with the two cabs joined. Flexi¬ 
bility sufficient to go round sharp curves 
with the least frictional resistance was gained 
by securing the driving-wheels in a truck 
which is free to move in a line different from 
that followed by the main frames. 

On one section of the Mexican Railway 
there are inclines as steep as I in 25, and 
a special kind of engine has been built by 
Messrs. Neilson and Co., of Glasgow, for 
these inclines. The engines are exception¬ 
ally heavy, and when fully loaded with water 
and fuel weigh ninety-four tons. Each bogie 
is fitted with two cylinders, and is an engine 
complete in itself, steam being supplied from 
the boiler which is common to botli. 

Unique forms of engines are also to be 
found in the States built expressly for the 
pine lumber industry, where they have to 
haul heavy loads over steep grades and on 
poor roads. Official statistics (made up last 
year) give the total number of locomotives 
in the United States as approximately 3(),0df>- 



THE BOILER OE THE AM.MOTH LOCOMOTI V E—O V KR TEN FEET IN 11 EIGHT. 




Bntbu6ia6t6, 

By J. Ayton Symington, 










“MY FIRST 


CENTURY.” 


With Contributions by 
W. G. (JRACE, A. E. STODDAET, 
C. E. FRY, K. J. KEY, 

G. L. JESSOP, J. R. MASON, 
R. ABEL, P. F. WARNER, 

J. T. BROWN, D. L. A. JEPHSON, 
AND LORD JIAAVKE, 


I [ere Chronicled 

BY 

M. Randal Roberts. 


Photo by1 


Hawkins <f: Co., Brighton. 

I.Olil) IIAWKK. 


T wenty years ago this article could 
not have been written. Till the 
middle of the seventies centuries 
were as rare as illustrated magazines. AYith 
the exception of W. G. Grace, the most 
famous batsmen could easily count on the 
fingers of one hand the number of times 
they had played an innings of a hundred, 
and there Avere plenty of first-class cricketers 
Avho had never scored a century at all. 
The smoothness of modern pitches and a 
succession of abnormally dry summers has 
altered all that. NoAvadays the difficulty 
would be to find a dozen men in first-class 
cricket Avho haA^e not scored a couple of cen¬ 
turies at some time or other. Still, e\xn 
though the century-makers’ glory has been 
dimmed by their numbers, there is always an 
interest attaching to the first century of a 
great batsman. 

Unfortunately, the modesty of most of our 
batsmen prevents them from looking at the 
matter in this light. Nearly all the amateurs 
to A\diom I applied for the purpose of this 
article ansAvered my first application by 
replying that they did not believe that the 
details of their first century could be of the 
slightest interest to anyone. As aauII be 


seen from the letters below, I Avas 
luckily able to overcome this coyness. 
One amateur, by the Avay—a very 
famous Notts batsman—entered so 
heartily into my scheme at the be¬ 
ginning that I Avas led to expect 
great things from his pen. He even 
volunteered the opinion that the idea 
of the article Avas a capital one ; but 
the delivery of this flattering criticism 
apparently induced a fit of absent- 
mindedness. AnyhoAV, though I 
jogged his memory Avith repeated reminders, 
I am still Avaiting for his account of his first 
century. The professionals are but scantily 
represented here. That, hoAvever, is OAving 
to the professionals’ shortness of memory, 
not to any lack of importunity on the 
part of the compiler of this aiticle. I have 
a long journalistic acquaintance with most 
of the professional cricketers in England, but 
I could not persuade any of them to un¬ 
bosom themselves to me about tlieir first 
hundred. “ It’s so long ago, I really can't 
remember anything about it,” Avas the burden 
of most of the replies I received. Coming 
from such century - hardened veterans as 
x\bel, ShreAVsbury, or Gunn, Avho have been 
making scores of a hundred for tAventy years, 
this excuse is valid enough ; but in the case 
of batsmen Avhose appearance in county 
cricket dates back only a couple of years, it 
may be taken Avith a A'ery liberal sprinkling 
of salt. After all, his first century is an 
epoch in the career of every cricketer. 

The most interesting of all first centuries 
is, of course, AY. G. Grace’s. I confess I had 
some misgivings about being able to draAv 
the great man on this subject. In the first 
place, “ AAY G.” hates confessions of all sorts ; 









176 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


in the second place, I knew that his first cen- 
tmy was hidden in sncli remote antiquity 
that I donhted whether he would he able to 
recall the actual date or any particulars 
concerning it. x\s it turned out, ‘‘ W. Gl.” 
could not say from memory exactly where or 
when he sooi'ed his first hundred, but he very 


kindly provided me with the material for 
finding what I wanted. Below T give his 
letter— 

“ London Comity Cricket Club, 

“ Crystal Palace, 

‘‘ Sydenham, S.E. 

‘‘ I am sending you an old LiUywhitoN 
Guide. You will find at pages 92 and 9:1 


an account of ray first hundred in first- 
class cricket. I fancy it was my first hundred 
in any cricket, but am not sure, it was so 
long ago. Please return the Guide as soon 
as you have done w'lth it. 

“ Yours truly, 

‘‘AY. (]. Guace.” 

On turning to pages 92 and 98 
T found the following account of a 
match played between the Gentle¬ 
men of Sussex and the South AVales 
Club, on July 14th, loth, 16th, 
1864. “ The hitting was com¬ 

menced by the South Wales Gentle¬ 
men, who lost a wicket for 19 runs. 
Then came the most extraordinary 
incident in this great hitting match. 
Mr. J. Lloyd was partnered by 
Mr. AA^. G. Gi’ace, the younger 
brother of the celebrated cricketer, 
and they were not parted until the 
score stood at 207. Mr. Lloyd left 
for 82, a well played innings ; but 
young Mr. Grace did not leave 
until he had scored 170 runs, pro¬ 
nounced to be the finest innings 
played last season on the Brighton 
gronnd. He did not give a single 
chance, and was at last out by 
])laying the l)all on to liis Avicket. 
He also carried out his bat for 56 
in the second innings. AVhen it is 
borne in mind that tliis young 
gentleman was not sixteen years of 
age until the 18tli of July, two 
days after the match Avas played, 
there can be very little doubt that 
this 170 and 56 not out, of Mr. 
AAC Gf. Grace’s, was one of the 
greatest batting feats of the great 
batting season of 1864.” 

AW superlatives have long since 
been exhausted in descrilang AY. G. 
Grace’s dazzling career, but if a 
succinct proof were Avanted of his 
overpoAvering superiority to all 
players, past and present, it could 
be found in this—that he scored 
his first century in 1864, and that 
in 1900 lie is still holding his OAvn 
with the best in first-class cricket. 

In the same year that Grace played the 
first of his hundred odd centuries, the cricketer 
who possilJy comes next to him in merit AA^as 
l)orn. As most cricketing careers go, A. E. 
Stoddart is almost a veteran, but he is 
positively an infant compared Avitli AY. Gl. 
Glrace. Mi*. Stoddart, as Avill be seen from 



Photo hyl \^TIawkin!i, lirighton. 

1)|{. W. O. GUACK. 










‘^JIY FIRST CENTURYr 


177 


his letter, like some other cricketers to 
whom I applied, took mv (piestioii to refer 
to his first century in first-class cricket. As 
a matter of fact, he scored bushels of cen¬ 
turies for the Hampstead Club long before 
he appeared for Middlesex. At the" time of 
writing it is not known whether Mr. Stoddart 
will take part in county cricket this season, 
but the mere recounting of a few of his 
great feats inakes one feel whiit an irreparable 
loss to the game his permanent retirement 
will be. In reply to my request for some 
details about his first century, Mr. Stoddart 
wrote as follows— 

“ South Hampstead, N.W. 

“Of course there is always pleasure to be 
got out of making a century, whether you 
win the match or lose it. But the pleasure 
is very naturally enhanced when the hundred 
one makes happens to win, or, at any rate, 
helps to win, the match. My first hundred 
in first-class cricket was made against Kent, 
at Gravesend, on August lP>th, 188(), but the 
match was drawn and my innings was by no 
means a good one. What I consider tlir. 
century of my career was made on the 
occasion of tfie visit of my first team to 
Australia on the 1st of January, 181)5, at 
Melbourne, in the second of the test matches. 
We were 48 runs to tlie bad on the first 
innings.; in the second innings I made 178 
out of a total of 475, leaving the Australians 



Photo hy"] \_ThieJe. 



I). L. A. JEPirSON. 
Photo by Ilawkim, Brighton. 


428 runs to get—a score they fell short of 
by i)4 runs. As 1 felt that I had con¬ 
tributed a small share to England’s victory, 
nothing I have ever done in cricket gives me 
the same lasting pleasure to look back on as 
that innings. 

“ Yonrs truly, 

“A. E. Stoddaut.” 

Mr. Stoddart must ha\e l)een in tremen¬ 
dous form at the time he made his first 
century in county cricket, as. it Avas within 
a few days of his hundred against Kent, at 
Gravesend, that he made his mammotli score 
of 485 for the Hampstead Club against the 
Stoics. 

Hid he not tell us so himself, we should 
never believe that it is tAventy years ago since 
S. M. J. AYoods scored his first century. 
According to Wisclpu, “ Sammy” Woods Avas 
born in 18G8, and, as he tells ns that he 
was tAA^elve years old Avhen he made his first 
hundred, it must be tAventy years ago since 
he accomplished that feat. "But I am not 
sure that Ave sliould be surpi’ised if Ave had 
heard that he had started making centuries 
thirty years ago. “ Sammy ” is the type of 
cricketer avIio looks as if he had been born 
with a bat in his hand. He made centuries 
as a boy, and as a man he is a AA’hole side in 
himself. Here is his letter— 

“ AVhen I Avas tAA^elve I scored 10!) out of 
148 for Juniors of Boyston College, Sydney, 
KeAV South AVales. I Avas in the first eleven 
at the time and played for them in the 
afternoon. 1 I’emember telling the captain 
that I had made a century in the morning, 
thinking he might put me in a little earlier. 

I generally went in last, as T was a boAvdei*. 


S. M. J. WOODS. 



178 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



i';’,, ■ - ■ ■ •' A 

Photo />//] \_R. TK Thomas, Cheapside. 


KOBEIIT ABEL. 

Much to my disgust, lie said, ‘ Oh, tlien you 
need not go in soon, as you will be too tired ; 
or, if you do, get out first ball.’ A¥hich I 
did without any trying to. 

“ S. M. J. Moods.” 

“Sammy” has not had to wait on a captain’s 
instructions very often since those early days. 
From the time he entered Brighton College 
he has generally been captain of any team he 
has played for—and a right good captain, 
too. 

Lord Hawke’s account of his first hundred 
is, unfortunately, rather brief, but tliat is not 


at all the fault of the Yorkshire captain. Lord 
Hawke originally VTote me a most interesting 
and graphic description of his first century. 
A \'ery well known amateur whom I asked for 
a contribution to this article told me that he 
would be glad to write it if I Avould let him 
have a sample of the kind of thing I wanted. 
I sent him Lord Haw-ke’s letter as a guide- 
post, but from that day to this 1 have 
neither seen the sample nor the contribution 
for wdiich it was to serve as a model. At the 
last moment, just as this article was going 
to press, I applied again to Lord Hawke, and 
he very courteously consented to \vrite me 
another account of his first hundred, but as 
the cricket season had just begun he had no 
time to look up records and had to write 
merely from memory. His second letter ran 
as follows— 

“ Wighill Park, 

“ Tadcaster. 

“ I really forget exactly what I Avrotc 
about my first century, but, as far as I 
recollect, it was that I made 171 out of 191, 
in Lower Boys Cup Tie, at Eton, in 1875. 
Ran six others out, bagging the bowling. 
First liundred in first-class cricket Avas 141 
for Cambridge v. C. I. Thornton’s XL, 
ill 188:'), against the bowling of Peate, 
Ulyett, and Barnes. A^ery busy—hope this 
Avill do. 

“ Yours A'cry trulv, 

“ ilAWKE.” 

IT ere is what C. B. Fry has to say about 
his first century— 

“ Chelsea. 

“ I am sorry to say I can’t recall the 
circumstances of the first century I ever 
made ; luit the first hundred I made in first- 
class cricket was at Asbley Down, Bristol—it 
was in 1894,1 fancy. The Avicket Avas of the 
sticky order, but a trifle too sIoaa' to be really 
difficult. I managed to make 109 in a part¬ 
nership Avith Butt, our Avicket-keeper, who 
made 75. AYe both made most of our runs 
by ‘ pulls ’ and ‘ hooks.’ I certainly did not 
play Avell. I did not at the time know hoAv 
to play back, and kept reaching forward at 
the breaking ball and nearly getting boAAded. 
I ought to have been stumped at 99 off C. 
Ti. ToAvnsend, Avhose bowling I found most 
difficult ; in fact, he was my master all 
through, but luck Avas Avith me that day. 
The other boAvlers, as far as I can remembei’, 
Avcre J. J. Ferris, Roberts, and ‘AY. G.’ 
Sussex Avon by an innings, I think. I missed 
four ‘ dolly ’ catches in close succession. But 







J. T. liHOWN. 


G. L. JKSSOP. 


P. F. WARNER. 


Photographs by K. Hawkins «(• Co., Brighton. 


C. B. FRY. 






180 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


the scoring on the Gloucestershire side was 
low. 1 fear my first century was not a great 

innings. ‘ -Yonrs, 

“ C. B. Fry.” 


Though Mr. Fry cannot remember the date 
of his very first century, some of his school¬ 
fellows have a more retentive memory. An 
old Kepton boy told me the other day that 
he distinctly remembers C. B. Fry playing an 
innings of over a hundred in a house match 
at Repton, some ten years ago. The Avriter, 
besides, has a Avell defined recollection of a 
certain young man with the same name and 
initials as Air. Fry, avIio had been previously 
known as an excellent Association Ijack and 
a marvellous long-jumper, making a hundred 
in the ‘‘ Freshers” match at Oxford iu 1892. 
Talking of Beptou, it is worth remarking 
hoAV completely C. B. Fry has distanced in 
the last couple of seasons his old school¬ 
fellow and ri\'al, L. V. H. Palairet, in the 


race for cricket honours. At Repton, and 
at Oxford, L. C. H. Palairet was always 
regarded as a batsman of a much higher class 
than 0. B. Fry, but continued ill-liealth has 
materially affected the former’s renown as a 
cricketeiC Undoubtedly 0. B. Fry’s fine 
constitution has been an important factor iu 
his athletic success. 

The bowler wiio, C. B. Fry tells us, proved 
his master Avhen he Avas making his first cen¬ 
tury has something to say about his own first 
hundred in first-class cricket. Iu 1894, as 
all the Avorld knows, 0. L. Townsend was 
the most promising bowler in England, but 
was no great sliakes as a batsman. It was in 
1897 that his great l)atting alnlities first 
showed themselves. For some reason or 
other, nine out of ten cricketers Avill tell 
you that they Avould rather score a hundred 
against Y^orkshire than any other county. 
C. L. ToAvnsend, as Avill be seen from his 
letter beloAA^, shares this feeling— 

“ Clifton Club, 

“ Clifton, Bristol. 

“ We were playing Yorkshire, at Harrogate, 
on July 20th, 21st, 22nd, 1897. It was in this 
match that Gilbert Jessop, avIio went in just 
before me, scored his historic 101 in forty 
minutes. I had to go iu immediately after 
this astonishing bit of hitting, and never felt . 
less like making runs. Hownver, I suppose 
I must have ])een in good form at the time, 
for after the first few overs everything seemed 
easy to me. I was as slow as a snail at first, 
but after my first fifty I began to score quite 
fast and made my last fifty in about forty-five 
minutes, an exceedingly fast rate for me in 
those days. It Avas a most exciting monieiit 
for me Avhen I saw the handkerchief go and 
kiieAv that I had gained iny ambition and 
scoi'ed a hundred against Yorkshire. What¬ 
ever hundreds I have made since, none have 
giA’en me the same ])leasure as that particular 
century against Yorkshire. 

“ Yours truly, 

“ C. L. Townsend.” 

^Ir. ToAvnsend’s letter is a Avell deserved 
tribute to the irritating excellence of the 
Yorlvshire l)OAvling. 

AVith an increased experience of first-class 
cricket many cricketers change their original 
methods. J. Darling, the Australian, started 
life as a great hitter, tliough in important 
matches he is noAV a “ stick ” of the most pro¬ 
nounced order. George Braun, too, and 
even C. B. Fry, played a A-astly freer game 
in tlieir early days oF county cricket than 
they do at present. lYrhaps the most won- 



Photo by] 


[ Hawkins, Brighton. 






181 


‘J/r FIIIST CENTURYr 


(lerful thing about Gilbert Jessop’s batting 
is that he has never changed his style a jot. 
Time cannot temper his ferocious hitting. 
As will be seen from his confession below, 
his first hundred, in a local match in Essex, 
was made by exactly the same methods as he 
employs to-day against the most skilful 
bowling in the world. Once let him get his 
eye in, and he can carve a century out of the 
l)est balls of Lockwood, Richardson, and 
J. T. Hearne, as easily as from the half 
volleys of the merest agriculturalists in a 
Saturday afternoon matcli on the village 
green. Mr. Jessop thus describes liis first 
hundred — 

“ My first appearance as a centurion in 
any match was in Essex, for South AYood- 
ford V. AVoodford United, in 1893, when I 
scored 112. I can remember that it was a 
distinctly lucky innings, remarkable chiefly 
for the number of opportunities 1 presented 
to the wicket-keeper. 1 stood a foot and a 
half outside my crease during most of the 
innings, and eventually fell a victim to my 
rashness, by l)eing stumped through the ball 
rebounding from the wicket-keeper’s pads. 
This habit of mine, by the way, of standing 
outside the crease, greatly displeased the 
journalistic critics when first I played county 
cricket. The comments of a Manchester 
evening paper on my debut as a first-class 
cricketer were certainly not very encouraging 
to a nervous player. They read as follows : 
‘ If Mr. Jessop cannot bat better than he 
can bowl or field, he will certainly not be an 
acquisition to the western shire.’ My run¬ 
ning out to Alold was condemned in those 
days as ‘ rustic cricket ’ l)y a good few of the 
people who nowadays talk of the same 
method as good forcing tactics. Mores 
mutant w\ 

“ Sincerely yours, 

Gilbert J.. Jessop.” 

Mr. J. R. Mason’s account of his first cen¬ 
tury is short and concise— 

“ In reply to your letter of the 27tli, I 
scored my first century for Mr. Smith’s House 
V. Mr. i)u Roulay’s House, on July 14th, 
1891. I made 109 not out, and know that 
I was missed three or four times at least, but 
can’t remember any further details. 

“ Yours truly, 

“ J. R. Mason.” 

I wonder how many schoolboys have made 
a century without being missed at least half 
a dozen times. 





i 

Photo bn'] [//awA-ms, HrigUton. 

,1. i;. >rAsoN. 

Abel had forgotten all al)out his first cen¬ 
tury, but he solaced my feelings with the 
following pleasant little note— 

“ Sorry I can’t give you any assistance in 
your article on ‘ My First Century,’ but I 
have quite forgotten when and where I made 
my first hundred, and have not kept a record. 
Otherwise I should have been very pleased 
to have olfiiged you. 

Yours truly, 

“ Robert Abel.” 

Robert xAbel’s late captain was more com¬ 
municative. Mr. Key, luckily, keeps cricket 
records, and was good enough to put himself 
to considerable trouble in looking up some of 
these records for the benefit of the readers of 
the AA'indsor. 

‘‘ 22, Summer Place, S.AY. 

“ I am sorry I have not answered your 
letter sooner, but I have been trying to look 
up particulars. Aly first hundred was made for 
Clifton College against the Old Cliftonians, 
at Commemoration, in 1882. My score was 
181 uot out ; I went in first wicket down ; 
I rather think the innings was unfinished. I 


182 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


remember being missed at third man when I 
had made about fourteen, but that was about 
my only chance. The bowling cannot have 
been formidable. T. W. Lang was one bowler, 
and at the end of the innings J. A. Bush 
bowled fast underhand sneaks, when he suc¬ 
ceeded in miming out a boy who was backing 
up too much. 

“ Yours truly, 

“ K. J. Key.” 

Since the days of C. F. fl. Leslie, Kugby 
has not been particularly rich in cricketers. 
But a batsman of the calibre of P. F. Warner, 
“ commonly known as ‘ Plum,’ Avho takes 
teams to America, and goes in first for 
Middlesex,” amply compensates for many 
failures. Mr. Warner took to making cen¬ 
turies at an early age and has continued the 
practice ever since. He was only sixteen 
when the event related below took place. 
This is how he describes it— 

The first time I ever made a century 
was at Pugby, against the Free Foresters. 
The match was played on June 10th and 17th, 
1890, and my score was 177 not out. The 
Free Foresters scored 311, and the School 
303. I went in first wicket down, when only 
a few runs had been scored, and was 20 
not out overnight, and 99 not out at lunch 
on the second day. The Avicket Avas a very 
good one, just the right pace, not too fast, 
and my last forty runs Avere made after 
a shoAver of rain, the ball cutting through 
and the wicket being very easy. I Avas 
missed tAvice, AAiien about 84, and again at 
132. This 177 is the highest score I haA^e 
ever made. 

‘‘ Yours truly, 

“ P. F. Warner.” 


There is a curious similarity, by the way, 
betAveen the first centuries of K. J. Key, 
J. E. Mason, and P. F. Warner. Each made 
approximately the same number of runs, each 
AA^as not out, and the three were all school¬ 
boys at the time. 

There is nothing new under the sun. I 
had flattered myself that in this article 1 had 
perpetrated an entirely novel idea, till J. T. 
Brown’s letter dispelled the notion. Some 
other cricket enthusiast had evidently got 
hold of the idea before. Luckily for me, lie 
failed in his attempt to carry it out. 

‘‘ I am sorry I cannot oblige you by 
writing an account of my first century ; but 
as I have been asked to do so before, and 
refused, I think it Avould not look Avell of me 
to do so noAv. 

“ Yours truly, 

“ J. T. Broaa^n.” 

Mr. D. L. A. Jephson had to thank the 
fieldsmen for his first century. The iieAV 
Surrey captain frankly tells us that he Avas 
missed more than a dozen times — 

“ Surrey County Cricket Club, 

“ Kennington Oa^uI, S.E. 

“ I hope this note is not too late for your 
purpose. The first century I ever made Avas 
for the Clapham Wanderers (now the Wan¬ 
derers), at Penshurst, in Kent, fourteen years 
ago. I got 148, and AA^as missed fifteen 
times. The only Avay I can account for my 
making such a score Avas that the ground AA-as 
so exceedingly small that all the bad strokes 
counted four—as they Avent clean out of the 
ground—and the good ones only one or two. 

‘‘ Yours sincerely, 

“ 1). L. A. Jephson.” 










YOUNG BARBARIANS. 

Bv IAN MACLAREN." 

llliistrated hy Harold Copjying. 

No. II. —A TOURNAMENT. 


INCE the 
day when 
the Spar¬ 
row and a 
few 

friends had 
broken 
every pane 
of glass in 
the Count’s 
windows, 
and the 
Count had 
paid for 
the damage 
like a 
gentle- 
man, that 
e X cellent 
foreigner 
had spent 
all his 
spare cash 
—w h i c h 

we thought afterwards was not very much— 
in encouraging athletic exercises among the 
Seminary lads. His zeal, like that of every 
other convert, was much greater than his 
knoAvledge, and left to his own devices he 
would certainly have gone far astray ; but 
with the able assistance of the Sparrow, with 
whom he took intimate counsel, it was 
astonishing what a variety could be infused 
into the sports. When every ordinary com¬ 
petition had been held, and champions had 
been declared (and this had never been done 
before in the history of the school) for the 
hundred yards, the quarter, and the mile 
(the ten miles down the Carse and over the 
top of Kinnoul Hill had been stopped by an 
impromptu meeting of parents), for broad 
jumping and high jumping, for throwing the 
cricket-ball and kicking the football, the 
Sparrow came out witii a quite new pro¬ 
gramme which was rapturously received, and, 
had it not met with a cross-providence, would 
have lasted over four happy Saturdays and 


* Copyrif^lit, moo, liy .lohn 'Watson, in the United 
States of America. 


considerably reduced the attendance at the 
Seminary. The first item was a swimming 
match across the Tay, a river not to be 
trified with, and four boys were saved from 
death by a salmon-cobble, whose owner for¬ 
tunately turned up to watch the sport. The 
Count was so excited by this event that he 
not only lost his hat in the river, but being 
prevented from going in to help, for the very 
good reason that he could not swim a stroke, 
he took off and fiung the coat, which Avas the 
marvel of MuirtoAvn, into the river, in the 
hope that it might serve as a lifebelt. The 
second item, upon which. the SparroAV prided 
himself very much, Avas a climbing match, 
and for this he had selected a tree Avhich 
seemed to be designed for the purpose, since 
it had a rook’s nest on its highest branch, 
and no branches at all for the first tAventy 
feet. The conditions Avere, that every boy 
above tAvelve should have his chance, and 
the boy AAdio climbed to the top, put his 
hand into the rook’s nest, and came doAvn in 
the shortest time, should get the prize. The 
Seminary above tAvelve were going up and 
down that tree a Avhole Saturday morning, 
and in one kirk next day thanks AA^ere offered 
in the first prayer in peculiarly dignified and 
guarded terms that half the families of 
Muir town had not been bereaved. As a 
matter of fact, nobody Avas killed, and no 
limbs Avere broken, but the SparroAV, Avho 
Avas not allowed to enter for this competition, 
but acted as judge, Avith his tongue out all 
the time at tlie siglit of the sport, had to go 
up twice on errands of mercy, once to 
release his friend HoAvieson, Avho had missed 
a branch and Avas hanging by his feet, and 
the second time to succour Pat Ritchie, Avho 
Avas suspended by the seat of his trousers, 
SAvaying to and fro like a gigantic apple on the 
branch. It Avas understood that the Seminary 
had never enjoyed themseh^es so entirely to 
their heart’s content, but the Count’s moral 
courage failed during the performance, and 
at the most critical moment he Avas afraid to 
look. When Muirtown got Avind of this last 
achievement of the SparroAv’s, indignation 
meetings Avere held at church-doors and 
street-corners, and it was conveyed to the 











184 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



“‘You will see, ha, ha! you will see/” 

Rector—^wlio knew notliing about the matter, 
and was so absent-minded tliat if he had 
passed would never have seen what was going 
on—that if Providence Avas going to be 
tempted in this fashion again, the matter 
would be brought before the Town Council. 
The Count himself would have been faith¬ 
fully dealt Avith had he not been coiisidered 
a helpless tool in the hands of the SparroAV, 
Avho Avas noAv understood to have filled the 
cup of his sins up to the brim ; and he might 
have been at last expelled from the Seminary, 
of Avhich he Avas the chief ornament, had it 
not been that the Count Avent to the Rector 
and explained that the idea had been liis 
from beginning to end, and that it Avas Avith 
the utmost difficulty he could induce the 
SparroAv even to be present. For, as I said, 
the Count Avas a perfect gentleman and 
alAA^ays stood by his friends through thick and 
thin ; but the thrashing Avhich the SparroAV 


got from Bulldog was monumental, and in 
preparation for it that ingenious youth put 
on three folds of underclothing. 

AVhat the SparroAV bitterly regretted, Iioaa- 
ever, AA^as not the punishment, Avhich AA^as 
cliea]) at tlie money, but the loss of the next 
two items in his programme. He had planned 
a boxing competition, in Avhich the main 
feature Avas to be a regular set-to betAveen 
Dune Robertson and himself, to decide finally 
Avhich Avas the better man, for they had 
fought six times and the issue Avas still 
doubtful; and the SparroAV, an'Iio had a profli¬ 
gate genius outside the class-rooms, had also 
imagined a pony race Avith hurdles ; and as 



A TOURiyAHIENT, 


185 


about twenty fellows, fanners’ sons anrl others, 
had ponies, of wliich they were always 
bragging, and the Sparrow had the pick of 
his father’s stables, he niodestly believed that 
the affair would be wortli seeing. AVlieii the 
hurdle race was forl)idden, for which the 
Sparrow had already begun to make entries 
and to arrange weights with his father’s 
valuable assistance, he took the matter so 
much to heart that his health gave Avay, and 
Mr. McGuffie senior had to take him to 
recruit at the Kilmarnock Kaces, from which 
he returned in the highest spirits and full of 
stories. 

For some time after this painful incident 
the Count lay low and adopted a deprecating 
manner Avhen he met the fathers and mothers 
of Muirtown ; but he gave his friends to 
understand that his resources were not at an 
end, and that he had a surprise in store for the 
Seminary. The Sparrow ran over every form 
of sport in casual conversation to discover 
what was in the Count’s mind, but he would 
not be drawn and grew more mysterious 
every day. One Saturday evening in mid¬ 
summer he took the Sparrow and Nestie into 
his confidence, explaining that his idea Avould 
be announced to the assembled school by him¬ 
self next Wednesday, and that it had nothing 
to do, as the Sparrow had hinted in turn, Avith 
rats, or rabbits, or fencing, or the sword 
dance. With their permission he Avould say 
one Avord \Adiich Avonld be enough for persons 
of so distinguished an imagination, and that 
AA^ord AA'as Tournament ” ; and he AA'ould 
speak of nothing else except the beauty of 
the evening light upon the river, Avhich he 
declared to be “ ravishing,” and the excellence 
of a certain kind of chocolate which he 
carried in his pocket and shared generously 
Avith his “dogs.” As he parted Avith his 
friends the Count tapped his nose and winked 
at them—“ Tournament—great, magnificent, 
you Avill see, ha, lia ! you Avill see ” ; and 
the SparroAV went home in a state of utter 
confusion, coming finally to the conclusion 
that the Count intended to introduce some 
French game, and in that case it Avould be 
his painful duty to oppose the Count tooth 
and nail, for everybody knew that French 
games Avere only for girls, and Avould bring 
endless disgrace upon MuirtoAvn Seminary. 
During Sunday Nestie had turned the matter 
over in his mind, and being full of Scott’s 
novels he Avas able on J\Ionday to giv^e the 
astonished school a full programme Avith the 
most minute particulars. The tournament 
AA^as to be held in the North MeadoAv ; the 
judge Avas to be the Commander of the 


cavalry at the barracks; John McGlashan, the 
town’s bellman, Avas to be herald ; the Fair 
Maid of Perth Avas to be the Queen of Beauty ; 
and the combatants were to be such mighties 
as Eobertson, HoAvieson, and of course the 
SparroAV. Each knight Avas to be in armour, 
and Nestie freely suggested dish-covers Avould 
be usefnl as breastplates, broom-handles AA^ould 
come in conA^eniently for lances, and as ponies 
Avere now forbidden, sturdy boys of the lower 
forms Avould be used instead. The tAVo 
knights Avho challenged one another Avould 
rush from opposite ends of the lists, meet 
in the centre, lance upon breastplate, horse 
to horse, and man to man, and the one that 
overthreAV the other Avould receive the prize ; 
and at the thought of such a meeting be- 
tAA'eenthe SparroAvand Dune Robertson, each 
in full armour, the delighted school smacked 
their iipSo 

“ MuirtoAvn Races ’ill be nothing to it,” 
said Ritchie. “ Fll lay anybody a shilling 
that Spiug coups (capsizes) Dime the first 
meeting ; but ”—feeling as if it Avere almost 
too good to be true—“ I dinna believe a 
Avord o’t. Nestie is a fearsome liar.” And 
after the school had spoken of nothing else 
for a day. Dune Robertson asked the Count 
boldly Avhether such things AA^ere true. 

‘‘‘Mon ami,'*'* said the Count, Avho had 
tasted Nestie’s romance with much relish, 
“you Avill pardon me, but it is a hanaliU, 
that is Avhat you call a stupidity, to ask 
Avhether so good a jeu (resprU is true. 
True ? Truth is a dull quality, it belongs to^ 
facts ; but Nestie, he does not liA^e among 
facts, he flies in the air, in the atmosphere of 
poetry. He is a raconteur. A tournament 
Avith knights on the North MeadoAV—good ! 
Our little Nestie, he has been reading 
‘ lA^anhoe ’ and he is a troubadour.” And the 
Count took off his hat in homage to Nestie’s 
remarkable poAvers as an author of fiction. 

“ But yes, it Avill be a tournament; but 
not for the body, for the mind. My dogs 
are jolly dogs ; they can run, they can leap, 
they can SAvim, they can kick the ball; noAV 
they must think, ah ! so deep. They must 
Avrite their very best Avords, they must shoAV 
that they have beautiful minds ; and they 
Avill do so, I swear they Avill, in the tourna¬ 
ment, Avhich Avill not be on the meadoAV—no ; 
too many coavs there, and too many Avashers 
of clothes—but in seclusion, in the class-room 
of that brave man called the Bulldog. It will 
be a battle,” concluded the Count Avitli enthu¬ 
siasm, “ of heads ; and the best head, that 
head ay ill haA^e the prize, voila.’''' 

“ Silence ! ” and Bulldog brought his cane 

0 


186 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


clown upon his desk that AVednesday after¬ 
noon when the whole upper school was 
gathered in his class-room, bursting with 
curiosity. “ The Count has a proposition to 
lay before you which he will explain in his 
own words and which has the sanction of the 
Rector. You will be pleased to give the 
Count a respectful hearing, as he deserves at 
your hands.” And Bulldog was there to see 
lhat the Count’s deserts and his treatment 
strictly corresponded. 

“ Monsieur,” and the Count bowed to 
Bulldog, “ and you,” and now he bowed to 
t!ie boys, “ all my friends of the Seminary, I 
have the honour to ask a favour which your 
politeness will not allow you to refuse. Next 
Saturday 1 Avill dare to hold a reception in 
this place, with the permission of the good 

Bull- I do forget myself—I mean the 

distinguislied master. And when yon come, 
1 promise you that I will not offer yon coffee 
—pouf ! it is not for the brave boys I see 
before me, non,'' and the Count became very 
roguish. “ 1 will put a leetle, very leetle sen¬ 
tence on the-” (“ Blackboard,” suggested 

Bulldog). “ Merd, yes, the blackboard ; no, 
the honourable master he will have the good¬ 
ness to write it in his so beautiful characters. 
One sentence, that is all, and you will sit for 
one hour in this room where you make your 
studies, and yon will write all the beautiful 
things which come into your heads about that 
sentence. You will then do me the pleasure 
of letting me carry home all those beautiful 
things, and 1 will read them ; and the writer 
who affects me most, I will ask him to accept 
a book of many volumes, and the Lor’ 
Mayor ” Provost,” interpolated Bulldog) 
“ will present it on the great day in the 
Town Hall. 

‘‘ No one, not even the honourable master 
himself, will kuoAV that leetle sentence till it 

be written on the—the-” (“ Blackl)oard,” 

said Bulldog, Avith asperity), “ and eA'eiT 
boy will be able to Avrite many things about 
that sentence. The scholars upon whom I 
do felicitate the honourable master Avill Avrite 
much learning,” and the Count made a 
graceful inclination in the direction of the 
tAvo DoAvbiggins ; ‘‘and tlie brave boys Avho 
love the sport, they will also \yrite, ah ! ah ! ” 
—and the Count nodded cheerfully in the 
direction of the SparroAv—“ such Avonderful 
things. There Avill be no books ; no, you 
Avill liaA’e your heads, and so it Avill be the 
fair play, as you say,” repeated the Count 
Avith much satisfaction, “ the fair play.” 

Bulldog dismissed the school after he had 
explained that no-one need come unless he 


Avislied, but that anyone aa’Iio didn’t come 
Avas missing the opportunity of securing an 
honourable distinction, and Avould also shoAV 
himself to be an ungrateful little scoundrel 
for all .that the Count had done for the 
Seminary. 

“ Dod,” said Jock HoAvieson, AAdth much 
native shrewdness, “ aifter all his palaver it’s 
naething but anaither confounded exercise,” 
for that Avorthy had suffered much through 
impositions, and had never been able to con¬ 
nect one sentence Avith another in an 
intelligent manner. “ The Dowbiggins am 
go if they Avant, and they’re Avelcome to the 
books. I’m going next Saturday to Woody 
Island—Avill you come, Spiug ? ” And it 
hung in the balance Avhether or not the 
Count AA'onld be openly affronted next 
Saturday, Avhen he found himself in the 
company of half a dozen “ swats,” Avhile his 
“ jolly dogs ” AA^ere off* in a pack to their 
island of romance. 

The Sparrow could not imagine himself 
sitting in a class-room on Saturday afternoon, 
except under brute force, and yet he felt it 
AA'ould be ungrateful after all his kindness to 
leave the Count in the company of such 
cheerless objects as the DoAvbiggins. The 
reinembrance of all the sporting prizes he 
had AA’on at the Count’s hands, and the sight 
of the Count cheering at the sports, came 
OA^er his ingenuous heart and moved him 
to the most unselfish act of his life. “ Jock 
HoAvieson,” said the SparroAA^, Avith con¬ 
siderable dignity, “ ye may go to Woody 
Island if ye like, but it ’ill be the dirtiest 
trick ye ever played, and I’ll black both 
yir een for ye on M'onday. Have Ave eA^er 
had a match, cricket or football, the last four 
years, and the Count lie^iia been there ? 
Who got up the sports and gave the prizes ? 
Tell me that, Jock ? AVho stands ginger- 
beer at Lucky McCrum’s, ansvA'er me that, 
Jock, ye meeserable Avretch ? ” and then 
clinching every argument on “ Who paid for 
the broken glass ? I’m doon riclit ashamed 
o’ ye, Jock IIoAvieson.” 

“ Will ye go yourself, Spiug ? ” demanded 
Jock, rising under this torrent of reproach. 
“ I thiidv I see ye Avritin’ an essay on the 
history o’ the Romans, or sic like trash. 
Ye ’ill hunt us into Bulldog’s class-room^ and 
then go off yirsel to hunt rabbits ; brrt ye ’ill 
no play ony tiicks on me, Peter !Mc(juffie.” 

“ I Avill go,” said the SparroAV manfully, 
“though I’ll no promise to Avrite.” 

“ Say as sure's death,” said Jock, knowing 
the SparroAv’s Aviles. 

“ Sure as death,” said the Sparrow, and 





f 











188 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


then tlie school knew, not only that he would 
go, though he had to sit six hours instead of 
one, but also that every self-respecting boy in 
the Seminary must also put in an appearance 
at the Count’s reception. 

“ Best thing you ever did, Spiug,” said 
Nestie on the way home, “since you pulled 
me out of the Tay, and I should say that 
you have a good chance of the prize. What 
the Count wants is oiaginality, and I never 
heard a chap with so much original talk as 
you’ve got, Spiug. Just you put some of it 
down, like what you giv^e to the Pennies, and 
you’ll come out first, and it’ll be the first 
prize you ever won.” 

“ If there was a prize for impudence, and 
the entries were open to all Scotland,” said 
Spiug, “ ye would pass the post first and 
trotting.” 

“HOW I SPENT MY SATURDAY,” 

was what the school saw on the board when 
the Count removed the white cloth, and then 
he gave a brief exposition of his desires. 

“ Have the goodness, if you please, to write, 
not what you ought, but what you want. 
AVere you at the cricket match, you will tell 
me of the capture of the wickets ; or you 
were in the country, I will hear of the woods 
and the beautiful pheasants ” (this delicate 
allusion to Mr. Byles’s poaching experiences 
was much appreciated) ; “ or you were among 
the books, then you will describe what you 
love in them ; or you were looking at a 
horse, I expect to hear about that horse ” ; 
and the Avhole school nnderstood that this 
was a direct invitation to the Sparrow to give 
an exact picture of an Irish mare that his 
father had just bought. “ The subject, ah ! ” 
said the Count, “ that does not matter ; it is 
the manner, the style, tlie espril that is what 
I sliall value. I wish you all the good success, 
and I will go a walk in the meadow till you 
have finished.” 

“ Do your best, laddies,” said Bulldog, 
“ for the credit of the school and to please 
the Count. If I see ony laddie playing 
tricks I’ll do my part to teach him sobriety, 
and if I see one copying from another, out 
he goes. Ye have one hour from this 
meenut, make the most o’t,” and the 
tournament was open. 

Bulldog, apparently reading his morning 
paper, and only giving a casual glance to 
see that no one took advantage of the 
strange circumstances, was really watching 
his flock very closely and checking his judg¬ 
ment of each one by this new test. Dull, 
conscientious lads like the Dowbiggins began 


at once, in order that they might not lose a 
moment of time, but might put as much 
written stuff upon the paper as possible ; yet 
now and again they stopped and looked 
round helplessly because they had no books 
and no tutor to assist them, and they 
realised for the first time-how little they had 
in their own heads. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” said Bulldog to himself, “ 1 
kent ye were naithing but a painted show, 
and it ’ill do ye good to find that out for 
yirselves.” 

Jock Howieson and his kind regained 
the whole matter as a new form of enter¬ 
tainment, and as he could not have put into 
anything approaching connected words the 
experiences of his last Saturday, he employed 
the time in cutting up his unwritten paper 
into squares of an inch, and making 
them into pellets with which he prevented 
the Dowbiggin mind from being too much 
absorbed in study. He did this once too 
often, and Bulldog went down to call upon 
him with a cane and with plain, sinqde worhs. 

“ His head is an iLicli thick,” said Bulldog, 
as he went back to his desk, “ but there’s the 
making of a man in Jock, though he ’ill never 
be able to write a decent letter to save his 
life. He would suit the Scots Greys down to 
the ground.” 

The Sparrow had given a solemn ])romise 
to Nestie, under the customary form of oath, 
that he would write something, and whatever 
he wrote he would liaiid in, though it was 
only twenty words, and Spiug never went 
back from liis oath. AYhen Howieson caught 
the Dowbiggin ear with a pellet there is 
no doubt that a joyful liglit came into the 
SparroA\’s eyes, and he struggled with strong 
temptation, and when old friends made 
facetious signs to him he hesitated more 
than once, Imt in the end assumed an air of 
dignified amazement, explaining, as it were, 
that his whole mind was devoted to literary 
composition, and that he did not know what 
they meant by this impertinent inirusion 
upon a student’s privacy. Cosh certainly 
jumped once in his seal as if he had been 
stung by a wasp, and it is certainly true that 
at that moment there was a piece of elastic 
on the thuml) and first finger of the Sparrow’s 
left hand, but his right hand was devoted to 
literature. The language which Cosh allowed 
himself to use in the heat of the moment 
Avas so unvarnished that it came under 
Bulldog's attention, who told him that if he 
Avail ted to say anything like that again he 
must say it in Latin, and that he ought to 
take notice of the excellent conduct of Peter 


A TOURNAMENT. 


189 



“ Ilis right hand was devoted to literatme.” 


McGuffie, who, Bulldog declared, was not at 
all unlikely to win the prize. And as the 
master returned to his seat his back was seen 
to shake, and the wink with which the 
Sparrow favoured the class, in a l)rief rest 
from labour, was a reward for an hour’s 
drudgery. Ibilldog knew everybody up and 
down, out and in—what a pool’ creature Cosh 
was, and A\diat good stuif could be found in 
the Sparrow ; and he also knew everything 
that was done—why Cosh had said wliat he 
said, and why the Sparrow at that moment 
was lost in study. Jbdldog was not dis¬ 
appointed when Nestie’s face lighted up at 
tlie title of the essay, and he knew why his 
favourite little lad did not write anything for 
fifteen minutes, but looked steadily out 
at the window and across the Xorth 
Meadow, and he returned to his paper with 
a sense of keen satisfaction when Nestie at 
last settled down to work and wrote without 
ceasing, except when now and again he 
hesitated as for a word or tried a sentence 
upon his ear to know how it sounded. For 
the desire of Bulldog’s heart was that Xestie 
should win, and if^—^though that, of course, 
was too absurd—the Sparrow by the help of the 
favouring gods should come in second. Bull¬ 
dog would feel that he had not lived in vain. 

“ Ye have three meenuts to dot your i’s 


and stroke your t’s,” said Bulldog, “ and the 
Count will tell ye how ye’re to sign your 
names,” and then the Count, who had come 
in from his walk, much refreshed, advanced 
again to the desk. 

‘‘ It would be one great joy to have your 
autographs,” said the Count, “ and I would 
place them in a book and say, ‘ My friends ’ ; 
but honour forbids. As I shall have the 
too great responsibility of judging, it is 
necessary that I be—ah ! 1 have forgotten the 
word - yes ! show the fair play. No, I must 
not know the names ; for if I read the name 
of my friend the ever active, the ever brave, 
the ever interesting Sparrow” (at this indecent 
allusion the Sparrow grew purple and gave the 
bench in front of him to understand by well 
known signs that if they looked at him again 
he might give them something to look for 
outside), “ I would say the Sparrow is a 
sportsman, he is not a Utteraletir^ and I might 
not do my comrade the full justice. And if 
I read the name of the composed, the 
studious, the profound young gentleman who 
is before me ” (and it was fortunate the 
Dowbiggins had their backs to the school), 
“ I would know that it must be the best 
before I read it, and that would not be the 
fair play. 

“ No ! you will write on your admirable 
essay a motto—what you please—and your 
name you will put in an envelope, so,” and 
the Count wrote his own name in the most 
dashing mannei’, and in an awful silence, on 
a piece of paper, and closed tlie envelope 
with a graceful flourish ; ‘‘ and outside you 
will put your motto, so it will be all the 
fair play, and in the Town Hall next Saturday 
I shall have the felicity to declare the result. 
Viola! Has my plan your distinguished 
approbation ? ” and the Count made a 
respectful appeal to Bulldog. “Nothing 
could be fairer, you say ? Then it is agreed, 
and I allow myself to wish you adieu for 
this day.” 

When the school assembled for conference 
among the Russian guns, their minds Avere 
divided between two subjects. The first was 
what Spiug had written, on which that 
strenuous student would give no informa¬ 
tion, resenting the inquiry both as an insult 
to his abilities and an illustration of vain 
curiosity on the part of the school. Nestie, 
however, volunteered the trustworthy infor¬ 
mation that Spiug had spent his whole time 
explaining the good which he had got from 
being kept in one Saturday forenoon and 
doing mathematical problems under the eye of 
Bulldog. And Nestie added that he thought 


190 


THE WINBEOR MAGAZINE, 


ib mean of Peter to “ 8uck np ” to the master 
ill this disgraceful fasliion just for tlie sake 
of getting a prize. Peter confided to Nestie 
afterwards that lie liad really done his best 
to describe a close race for the Kilmarnock 
Clip, but tliat he didn’t think there were six 
words properly spelt from beginning to end, 
and that if he escaped without a thrasliing 
he would treat Nestle to half a dozen liottles 
of ginger-beer. 

Regarding the winner—for that was the 
other subject—there was a nnaninions and 
sad judgment: that Dnnc Robertson might 
have a chance, but that Thomas Jolm, the 
head of the Dowbiggins, would carry off the 
prize, as he had carried off all the other 
prizes ; and that, if so, they would let 
him knoAv how they all loved him at the 
Town PTall, and that it would be wise for 
him to go home with the Count’s prize 
and all tlie other prizes in a cab with the 
windows np. 

The prize-giving in the Town Hall was 
one of the great events in the Mnirtown 
year, and to it the memory of a Seminary 
lad goes back with keen i nterest. AW the fore¬ 
noon the Provost and the bailies had been 
sitting in the class-room of the Seminary, 
holding Latin books in tlieir hands, which 
they opened anywliere, and wagging their 
heads in solemn approval over the transla¬ 
tion by Thomas John and other chosen 
worthies, while the parents wandered from 
place to place and identified their sons, who 
I’efnsed to take any notice of tliem unless 
nobody was looking. • What mothers endured 
cannot be put into words, when they saw 
their darling boys (whom they had seen 
dressed that morning in tlieir Sunday 
clothes, and sent away in perfect array, with 
directions that they were not to break their 
collars, nor soil their jackets, nor disarrange 
their hair the whole day, or they need not 
come home in the evening) turn np in a 
class-room before tlie respectable of Mnii- 
town as if tlieir heads had not knoivii a 
brush for six months, with the Sparrow’s 
autograph upon their white collar, a button 
gone from their waistcoat, and an ounce of 
fiour in a prominent place on their once 
speckless jacket. 

“Yes,” said one matron to another, with 
the calmness of despair, “ that is my Jimmy, 
I cannot deny it; but ye may well ask, for 
he’s more like a street waufie than onytliing 
else. On a day like this, and when I see what 
a sight he’s made of himself in two hours, I 
could almost wish he had been born a giik” 

“ Losh keep us. Mistress Chalmers, ye 


maunna speak like that, for it’s no chancy he 
micht be taken away sudden, and ye would 
have regrets ; for bye your laddie’s nai thing 
to my Archie, for the last time I saw him, as 
Pm a livin’ woman, there wasna more than 
two inches of his necktie left, and he was 
fishing his new Balmoral bonnet out of the 
water-barrel in the playground. Ye needna 
expect peace if the Almichty give ye laddies, 
but I Avouldna change tliein for lassies—no. 
I’ll no go that length.” 

And the two matrons sustained themselves 
with the thought that if their boys were only 
a mere wreck of what they had been in the 
morning, other people’s boys were no better, 
and some of them were worse, for one of 
them had inflicted sncli damages on his 
trousers that, although lie was able to face 
the public, he had to retire as from the 
Royal presence ; nor was it at all unlike the 
motherly mind to conceive a malignant dis¬ 
like to the few boys who were spick and 
span, and to have a certain secret pride even 
in their boys’ disorder, which at any rate 
showed that they were far removed from the 
low estate of lassies. 

The great function of the day came off at 
two o’clock, and before tlie hour the hall was 
packed with fathers, mothers, sisters, elder 
brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, and distant 
relatives of the boys, while the boys them¬ 
selves, beyond all control and more dishevelled 
than ever, were scattered throughout the 
crowd. Some were sitting with their parents 
and enduring a rapid toilet at the hands of 
their mothers; others were gathered in clumps 
and arranging a reception for the more un¬ 
popular prize-winners ; others were prowling 
up and down the passages, exchanging sweet¬ 
meats and responding (very coldly) to the 
greeting of relatives in the seats, for the black 
terror that hung o\’er every Seminary lad was 
that he would be kissed publicly by a 
maiden aunt. Mr. Peter McG-uffie senior 
came in with the general attention of the 
audience, and seated himself in a prominent 
place with the Sparrow beside him. Not that 
Mr. McGuffie took any special interest in 
prize-givings, and certainly not because the 
Sparrow had ever appeared in the character 
of a prize-winner. Mr. McGufile’s patronage 
was due to his respect for the Count and his 
high appreciation of what he considered the 
Count’s sporting offer, and Mr. McGuffie 
was so anxious to sustain the interest of the 
proceedings that he was willing, although he 
admitted that he had no tip, to have a bet 
with anyone in his vicinity on the winning 
horse. He also astonished his son by offering 



“ Peter McGuffie senior seated himself in a prominent place with the Sparrow beside him.” 












192 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


to lay a soverei\i>^ii on Nestie coming in first and 
half a length ahead, which was not so much 
based nponany knowledge of Nestie’s literary 
qualifications as on the stinnge friendship 
between Nestie and his promising son. As 
the respectable Free Kirk elder who sat next 
Mr. McGnfihe did not respond to this friendly 
offer, Mr. McGiiffie put a straw in his mouth 
and timed the arrival of the Provost. 

When^ that great dignitary, attended by 
the bailies and masters, together with the 
notables of Muir town, appeared on the 
platform, the boys availed themselves of the 
licence of the day, shouting, cheering, 
yelling, whistling, and bombarding all and 
sundry Avith pellets of paper shot Avith 
extraordinary dexterity from little elastic 
catapults, till at last Bulldog, who in the 
helplessness of the Eector alAA^ays conducted 
the proceedings, rose and demanded silence 
for the Provost, avIio explained, at Avide 
intei’A^als, that he Avas glad to see his young 
friends (IioavIs from the boys) and also their 
respected parents (fresli hoAAds, but not from 
the parents) ; that lie AA'as sure the fathers 
and mothers AA^ere proud of their boys to-day 
(climax of howls) ; that lie liad once been a 
boy himself (unanimous shout of “No” 
from the boys) ; that lie liad eAmn fought in 
a snoAvball fight (loud expressions of horror) ; 
that he AA^as glad the Seminary Avas flourishing 
(terrific outburst, during Avhich the ProAmst’s 
speech came to an end, and Bidldog rose to 
keep order). 

One by one the prize-Avinners Avere called 
up from the side of their proud parents, and 
if ^ they Avere liked and had aa-oii their prizes 
Avitli the goodAvill of their felloAA^s, each one 
received an honest cheer AAiiich Avas heartier 
and braA^er than any other cheer of the day, 
and loud aboA^e it sounded the A'oice of the 
SparroAAq avIio, though he had never received 
a prize in his life, and neA^er AAmuld, rejoiced 
Avhen a decent fellow like Dune Robertson, 
the boAAder of the eleven and the half-back 
of the fifteen, shoAA^ed that he had a head as 
well as hands. When a prig got too many 
prizes there Avas an eloquent silence in the 
hall, till at last a loud, accurate, and suggestive 
“ Ma-a-a-a! ” from Spiug relieved the feelings 
of^ the delighted school, and the unpopular 
prize-Avinner left the platform amid the 
chorus of the farmyard —coavs, sheep, horses, 
dogs, cats, and a triumphant ass all uniting 
to do him honour. It Avas their day, and 
Bulldog gave them their rights, provided they 
did not continue too long, and every boy 
believed that Bulldog had the same judg¬ 
ment as themselves. 


To-day, hoAvever, the AA'hole gathering Avas 
hungering and thirsting for the declaration 
of the Count’s prize, because there never 
had been such a competition in MuirtoAvn 
before, and the Count Avas one of our 
characters. AYhen he came forAvard, Avonder- 
fully dressed, AA'ith a rose in his buttonhole 
and AA^aving a scented handkercliief, and 
boAved to everybody in turn, from the Provost 
to Mr. McGuffie, his reception Avas monu¬ 
mental and Avas croAvned by the stentorian 
approbation of the SparroAA^’s father. Having 
thanked the company for their reception, 
Avitli his hand upon his heart, and having 
assured the charming mothers of his young 
friends of his (tlie Count’s) most respectful 
deAmtion, and declared himself the slave of 
their sisters, and having expressed his pro¬ 
found reverence for the magistrates (at 
Avhicli several bailies tried to look as if they 
AA^ere only men, but failed), the Count 
approached the great moment of the 
(lay. 

The papers, he explained, upon his honour, 
Avere all remarkable, and it had been im¬ 
possible for him to sleep, because he could 
not tear liimself aAvay from the charming 
reflections of his young friends. (As the boys 
recognised this to be only a just compliment 
to their thoughtful disposition and literary 
genius. Bulldog liad at last to arise and 
quell the storm.) There Avas one paper, 
hoAvever, AAdiich the Count compared to Mont 
Blanc, because it rose above all the otliers. 
It Avas “ravishing,” the Count asserted, 
“ superb ” ; it AA^as, he added, the Avork of 
“ genius.” The riA'er, the woods, the flowers, 
the hills, the beautiful young Avomen, it Avas 
all one poem. And as the AAdiole hall AA^aited, 
refusing to breathe, the Count enjoyed a 
great moment. “The AATiter of this dis¬ 
tinguished poem—for it is not prose, it is 
poetry—I will read his motto.” Then the 
Count read, “ Faint Heart NeA^er Won Fair 
Lady,” and turning to the Provost, “ I do 
2 uyself the honour of asking your Excellency 
to open this envelope and to read the name 
to this distinguished audience.” Before the 
Provost could get the piece of paper out of 
the envelope, the SparroAA^, aaAio Avas in the 
secret of the motto, jumped up on his seat 
and, turning AA’ith his face to the audience, 
shouted at tlie pitch of his voice through 
the stillness of the hall, “ Nestie Molyneux.” 
And above the great shout that AA’ent up 
from the throat of the Seminary could be 
heard, full and clear, the vieAv-hallo of 
Mr. McGuffie senior, Avho had guessed the 
winner Avithout ever seeing the paper. 



CHRIST IN THK GARDKN OF GKTHSKMANK. 


I T was Joliii x4ii»*ustiis O’Sliea, perhaps 
best known as the ^Sfd.nddrd Avar 
correspondent daring the Franco- 
German war, Avho in ISGO, by his brilliant 
descriptive letters contributed to that paper, 
called tlie attention of Engdand to that 
extraordinary representation, the Passion 
Play, which tin’s year is again being per¬ 
formed at the small but pictnresqne village 
of Oberammergan, in the Jhivarian Alps. 

Since then the increase of visitors has 
been simply marvellous, and if the national 
crisis does not seriously interfere, it is 
expected that the present year’s influx Avill 
outdo any of the previous ones, at least so far 
as Great Britain’s contribution is concerned. 

It is true there was in 1890 a controversy 
carried on in our press for some time as to 
whether the Avhole Play Avas not in reality a 
profanation of a sacred subject. I hope to 
be able to shoAV that the very spirit Avhich 
prompts the performance precludes any such 
idea. I quote the great German actor, 
Edward Devrient, who visited tlie Play just 
half a century ago : One thing has become 
Avitli me a settled coiiAuction. If I have 
entertained a doubt as to the propriety of 
representing sacred subjects upon the statue, 
all such hesitation has A^anished from this 
hour. Here nothing can be considered a 


* Copyrii^ht, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 


THE PASSION 
PLAY AT OBER- 
AMMERGAU. 

By a. DE burgh* 

profanation of onr ideal of the Redeemer. 
On the contrary, the picture Avhich I had 
hitherto endeaA^oured to represent to my 
mental vision of the Son of God taking a 
visible form and acting liis part on the 
theatre of the Avorld, in the midst of His 
friends and opponents—this picture reap¬ 
peared at Ammergan and, deprived of its 
drama-like A^agneness, assumed all the vigour 
of life and reality. I beheld for the first 
time the God-Man as a pilgrim on the earth. 
In tiis triumphant entry into Jerusalem, 
Avhen the multitude hailed Him Avith shouts 
of Hosanna ! [ read on His broAV that His 
thoughts Avere turned far from the present 
scene of jubilation in order to contemplate 
the completion of His sacrifice on Calvary. 
KnoAving that the torments and the ignominy 
of the Cross Avere a necessary part of His 



THE VIRGIN MARY. 


193 






TJIE WIN DSC) II MAGAZINE. 


1 1)1: 

Heavenly Fatlier’s scheme of salvation, He 
kept aloof from the sentiments of tlie excited 
multitude, and was no more allured by their 
songs of triumph than He was afterwards 
daunted by their persecution, abuse, and 
blaspliemy. He knew that He must be 
betrayed, denied, abandoned by all, mocked, 
scourged, crowned with thorns, and crucified. 
It was by means of the village tragedy 
that I confronted these great truths of 
revelation. I then felt how deep is the 


wound Avhich has been inflicted by humanity 
against its Ideal. The tragedy was more 
powerful than word or painting.” 

I quote Mr. Devrient so fully because I 
have so frequently heard words to the same 
effect as the outcome of the impressions 
received by those who have seen the Play, 
and I therefore take it for granted that in 
the judgment of the great majority the 
performance is in no way profane. 

The people of the village who comprise 


the actors and actresses look upon this per¬ 
formance as a religions service, a labour of 
love, and their great training-school has 
always been the Church, with its impressive 
Catholic ceremonial, its processions, its 
music and song. The chief manager is the 
village priest, and every performance begins 
with prayer, when the whole company may 
be seen kneeling behind the di'op-curtain. 
Before the great work commences the players 
partake most solemidy of the Holy Com¬ 
munion, and prepare themselves 
in this wise for their difficult 
task. 

Although the Passion Play is 
performed but once in ten years, 
the people nevertheless rehearse 
to a certain extent their parts 
during the annual festivals of 
their Cffinrch ; thus, for instance, 
the procession Avhich takes place 
on every Palm Sunday equals 
as a dramatic scene Christ’s 
triumphal entry into Jerusalem 
wlieii performed at the Play. 

The Passion Play of Ober- 
ammergau dates as far back as 
1(>84, having l;)een performed 
ever since in consequence of a 
solemn voav made by the com¬ 
munity under the following cir¬ 
cumstances : In 1G8:3 a terrible 
pestilence broke out in the dis¬ 
trict ; a neighbouring village 
suffered so much that only two 
married couples were left. 
Although the strictest pre¬ 
cautions were exercised, the 
plague was introduced into Ober- 
ammergau and spread with such 
fearful rapidity that eighty-four 
persons succumbed within a 
month. Then the villagers 
assembled and vowed that, if 
the pestilence would disappear, 
they would perform the Passion 
Tragedy in thanksgiving every 
tenth year. From that time, 
the legend tells us, not one more died of the 
plague. In liVdi the Play was performed 
according to the vow, and since IGBO it has 
been repeated with a few exceptions every 
tenth year. 

This was the origin of the Oberammergau 
])erformance, but the Play is of a much 
older date, and in the neighbouring Tyrol it 
has been given as far back as the thirteenth 
century. 

I have had a chance, rarely granted to 



THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU, 


195 




anyone outside the Clini’cli, to i>*lance over the oldest existing text-hook, dated \(\Cr2, wliicli 
refers to a still older book. Fi'om this most interesting document 1 could see that the Play 
has undergone very great changes and improvements. In the olden times the Devil was 

allotted an important part 
in the tragedy, and was 
ever on the stage ; for 
instance, lie used to dance 
about Judas, and when the 
betrayer hanged liimself, a 
liost of imps would rnsli 
upon the suicide. All this 
is now entirely banished 
from the Oberammergan 
stage. 

iluring the last forty 
years the Play and its stage 
have been greatly improved 
and perfected, which is 
partly due to the interest 
the late King Ludwig IT. 
of Bavaria took therein. 

Tlie performances of 1870 sr. rirrivK. 

Avere suddenly ended by tlie 
outbreak of the Franco-German war, when no less than forty of the men and youths of 
Ammergau had to join the colours, among them being several of tlie actors. Joseph Mayer, 
who liad taken the part of Clirist, was one of those Avho had to go to fulfil their military 
duty. Of those who marched out of the village to fight for their country six neA^er returned, 
tAVo fell in battle and four died in hospital ; among the victims Avas Alois Lang, Avho had 
undertaken a pi‘incipal part in the Passion Play. When the Avar Avas ended, a repetition of 
the Play Avas given in 1871, as the villagers’ method of thaid^ing God for victory and peace. 

Originally the performance took place on Sundays and fete days only, and the cemetery 



Christ’s farewell before .journeying to Jerusalem. 








196 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


siiiTounding the cliurch formed both the 
stage and auditorium. To-day there is a 
large stage, and this year for the first time 
visitors Avill hud a covered auditorium, Avhich 
has been constructed at a cost of £10,000 
in order to protect the audience from the 
iiiclomeucy of the weather. It is a gigantic 
but severely simple hall, sixty feet higli, and 
consists of six iron arches with a span of 
nearly one hundred and thirty feet. It will 
comfoi’tably hold four thousand people. 

While thus the auditorium is completely 
under shelter, the stage and proscenium 
remain, as hitherto, quite open, and valley, 
mountain, and sky still form the background 
to the solemn drama. 

As regards tlie Play itself, it appears that 
the year 1850 saw tlie dawn of a new epoch. 


week of December of the yeai‘ preceding the 
Play. There are about two hundred and 
sixty parts, including minor roles., and at 
some scenes nearly five linndred persons 
appear on the stage. 

Aatnrally the most important part is that 
of Christ, and few men have the bodily 
strength to meet the physical requirements 
of the part. Josepli Mayei*, who fulfilled this 
role in 1880 and 1890, is six feet in height 
and of splendid physique ; nevertheless he 
often fainted when suspended on the cross. 
He is now fifty-two years of age, but although 
he is in admirable health he feels he has not 
strength to go through the ordeal again, 
much as he would love to do so. 

Photographs of the players are never 
allowed to be taken before the performances 





THK LAST SUPPER. 


The village priest, the Eev. Daisenberger, a 
great entlinsiast, undertook the important 
charge of educating his parishioners up to 
the level of their dramatic vocation (in 
ordinary life the inhabitants of Oberam- 
niergau are farmers and Avood-carvers). He 
organised rehearsals, invited tlie actors to his 
house, Avhere they had first to read their 
parts and then recite them, and he taught 
them to act. His Avork AA-as croAvned Avith 
success. Ever since that period the Passion 
Play has enjoyed uninterrupted prosperity. 

The selection of those aaTo take the various 
parts in the Play is a task of great import¬ 
ance. It is carried out by a committee of 
forty-fiA^e householders, under the presidency 
of tile priest. The election day is in the last 


begin, but as the costumes remain alAA-ays 
the same, Ave reproduce three of the principal 
figures of the Play of 1890—among them, 
Joseph IMayer, as Christ; Rosa laing, as the 
Virgin Mother ; Rundle, as Pilate ; and 
others of the devout participants in former 
representations of the World’s Tragedy, 
many of Avlioni are to undertake the same 
roles this year. 

The progress made in the Passion Play of 
Oberammergau AA^as due to a great extent to 
the monks of the neighbouring monastery of 
Ettal, Avho took it early under their protec¬ 
tion. The monastery, as such, is no more, 
the monks have disappeared, but the church 
and building are among the many beautiful 
relics that have been handed down to us 













from the Benedictine fraternity. I fonnd, in 
looking through the archives of Rothenbucli, 
another monastery in the neighbourliood, 
that Oberanimergau in the seventeentli cen¬ 
tury stood under its ])astoral charge, and 
therefore the village is douljtless indebted for 
the origin of tlie Play to the monks of the 
latter. My impression, founded on various 
indications, is that to Rotlienbuch must be 
given tlie credit of having lirst prepared 
the text and introduced the religious drama 


into Oberammergau, and that Ettal took, 
later, the guidance of any existing dramatic 
elements into its own hands. When in 1803 
the property of the suppressed Bavarian 
monasteries was put up at auction, costumes 
used in the religious plays were sold, and the 
community of Oberammergau purchased from 
Ettal a number of dresses, some of which are 
still in use. 

When the public theatre is taken down at 
the end of the great decennial season, the 



THE CKUCIEIXIOX. 

After the celebrated painting by Raphael. 



























198 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



TIIK DKStJKXT KKOM TIIK CROSS. 

stage itself still remains, and preparations 
are made for a number of other dramatic 
subjects, ])artly secnhir, partly religions, 
which the \'illagers perform. 

1 cannot strongly enough contradict some 
statements I have met with in the press to 
the effect that the Passion Play is simply a 
money-making affair. Tt is utterly untrue. 
The villagers treasure the Play as a precious 
heirloom, and its performance is a labour of 
love. They have over and over refused the 
most tempting offers to perform in England, 
America, (Germany, and Austria. The bulk 
of the money gained is devoted to charities 
and municipal expenses, and individually the 
actors lose in neglected woik inore than they 
are paid for tlieir participation in the Play. 
Not one of the players receives more than 
£20 for the whole time he is acting. 

I shall now endeavour to give a short 
sketch of the great Passion Play itself, not 
e^^sj t<}jsk when considering the wide scope 


and the many ingredients 
which make up the whole. 
The Play, which this year 
will be performed twenty- 
seven times—namely. May 
24th and 27th, June 4th, 
10th, IGth, 17th, 24th, and 
29th, July 1st, 8th, 15th, 
18th, 22nd, and 29th, 
August 5th, 8th, 12th, 15th, 
19th, 25th, and 2Gth, and 
September 2nd, 8th, 9th, 
IGth, 28i*d, and :30th—be¬ 
gins each day at 8 a.in. and 
lasts until 5.:30 p.m., with an 
interval of one and a half 
hours for lunch. 

Every day on Avhich the 
Play is performed (usually 
Sundays and Church festival 
days) is announced to the 
thousands of visitors in the 
following solemn manner. 
Precisely at seven o’clock 
on the preceding evening 
the musicians assemljle at 
the end of the village, and, 
headed by the fire brigade 
in uniform, they strike up 
a stirring march and parade 
the village. On the day of 
the Play the visitor is 
awakened at five in the 
morning by the booming of 
cannon, folloAved at sex’en 
by the band marching 
through the village streets. 

The stage has been so frequently described 
that I do not intend to enter into detiiils, 
more especially as the pliotograph which Ave 
reproduce giv^es a good idea of its general 
appearance. The manager and inventor of 
all the Avonderfnl sceneries in the Munich 
Opera House is the architect. Where twenty 
years ago one saAV but crude form* and colour, 
the eye now meets Avith artistic outlines and 
tones which are in full harmony Avitli the 
surroundings. 

The full depth of the house is about two 
hundred and tAventy feet, the Avidth one 
hundred and tAventy-five feet, the stage 
proper is about fifty feet deep, and the pro¬ 
scenium is tAventy-four feet deep. 

The stage is divided into five distinct 
places of action for the players : first, the 
proscenium, foi- the chorus, for processions 
and the like ; second, the central stage, for 
the tableaux vivants and the usual dramatic 
scenes ; third, the palace of Pilate ; fourth. 







(jllKIST LEAVING THE TOMB. 



ST. MARY MAGDALENE. 


ST. JOHN. 







200 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




ANNAS. 

the palace of Annas ; aiid hftli, the streets 
of elernsalein. 

Each of tlie eighteen acts or divisions, 
containing a series of dramatic scenes 
complete in itself, is prefaced with one or 
more tcibU(fnx vivants of proplietic Old 
Testament types, and an explanatory dis¬ 
course in song of what is going to happen 
during the coming act. To my mind the 
tableaux are the gem of the performance, and 
1 am glad to be able to give my readers 
three photographs representative of the 
best—namely : ‘‘ Christ’s Farewell Before 
Journeying to Jerusalem,” “The Crucifixion” 
(after Baphael), and “ Christ Leaving the 
Tomb.” . In order more fully to understand 
the Play, I quote a remark made by the 
village priest, who was the manager in 1800. 
He said : “ Our main object is to represent 
the story of Christ’s Passion, not by a more 
statement of facts, but in its connection with 
the types and figures and prophecies of the 
Old Testament.Many of the inci¬ 

dents in the lives of the ancient fathers bear 
a striking and obvious resemblance to various 
parts in the life of Christ, and set forth the 
sufferings, and death, and resurrection so 
minutely that the Evangelists continually 
mention some prophecy which was fulfilled.” 

The chorus of the Guardian Angels 


(Schutzgeister) is a simple adaptation of the 
corresponding part of the classic theatre to 
modern use. TTie chorus at Oberammergau 
consists of eighteen Genii, with a leader who 
is styled the Prologue or Choragus. They 
wear dresses of various colours, over which a 
Avhite tunic and a coloured mantle are worn. 
They ad\’ance from the recesses on either 
side of the proscenium and take up their 
position across the whole extent of the 
theatre, forming a slightly concave line. 
The Choragus recites an opening address 
which introduces each act; this is taken up 
by the chorus, who sing till the curtain is 
raised and the tableau vivant is shown. At 
that moment the chorus divides and its 
members stand to the right and left of the 
central stage. 

An English lady gives her memories of 
the chorus in the following words : “ And 
whilst they sang our hearts were strangely 
touched, and our eyes wandered away from 
those singular peasant angels and their 
peasant audience up to the deep, cloudless 
sky; we heard the rustle of the trees and 


CAIAPIIAS. 



THK /WSSW.y PLAY AT ()P>PRAMMPAKJAU, 


201 




heavy liaiiiiiier blows are heard beliiiid the 
scenes. The executioners are nailing’ Clirist 
to the cross. Then tlie curtain slowly 
ascends. Before the awestriclani audience 
there is revealed the scene on CalvaiT, tlie 
most intense and most realistic ])ictnre of the 
wliole ])erformance. On the ground, with 
till' liead sliglitly raised, is a largei* cross tlian 
th(‘ two already erected on which hang tlie 
maleractors. On this Christ is nailed. A 
soldier takes tlie inscrijition and nails it to 
tlii^ cross above Christ’s head, and then he 


calls his coni})anions, who I’aise the cross to 
an upright position. The actors in the sceiu' 
take up their positions at eitlier side of the 
crosses, while Cliiist’s friends are seen in the 
distant liackgi’ouud. The impression created 
is intensely affecting. Of course the whole 
story as related in the Gospel is now acted, 
Christ remaining in this ])Osition for quite 
twenty minutes. After the death-scene the 
earth ipiakes, the thunder rolls,and darkness 
spi’eads over all the stage, the conclusion 
being the descent from the cross. 

Before taking leave of my readers 1 shall 
say a few words as to tlie routes l;)y which 
Oberammergau may lie reached. One is 
from IMunich to Oberan by railway and 
hence by carriage: the otlun*, which certaiuly 
is by far the most beautiful and jiicturesque 

route, is 
from Inns- 
liruck, the 
well-known 
capital of 
Tyrol, so 
ch arm in g 
and pleas¬ 
ant in sum- 
m e r a n d 
winter, so 
healthy and 
so well pro¬ 
vided with 
s pi end id, 
(• o m f 0 rt- 
a])le, and 
reasonabl e 

.ii DAs iscAiooT, hotels. For 

1 ’ 


caught glimpses of the mountains, and all 
seemed a strange, poetical dream.” 

The space at my disposal is quite in¬ 
adequate to give even a brief recital of the 
action as it proceeds during the Play, and I 
will come at once to the climax. On all 
previous occasions the chorus have appeared 
clad in their many-coloured robes. In the 
sixteenth act, however, they have donned the 
garb of mourning. The Choragus addresses 
liis verses to the spectators, accompanied l)y 
soft, sad music. 

During the singing of the Chorus-Angels 


THE WINDSOR MAUAZINE. 


202 




many years Tiiiisbrnck lias been a favourite resort of Eu^lisli tourists, and when looking oyei* 
the books of the Hotel Tyrol, one of the tiiiest and best eondiieted hostelries in South 
Germany, I was not surprised to hnd registered the names of many people Avell known in 

England. The tour, which 
can be made by cari'iage, 
on horseback or cycle, 
occupies not quite twelve 
hours, and the traveller 
passes through scenery un¬ 
surpassed for beauty and 
wildness. The way leads 
througli Zirl, Seefeld, Mit- 
tenwald, Partenkirchen, 
and from there to Oberan, 
from which place a visit to 
the magnificeiit castles of 
the late King Ludwig 11. 
of Bavaria, Neu Schwan- 
steiii and Thnderhof, may 
easily be paid. To men¬ 
tion but a few of the 

.lUSKIMI OF AKTMATILKA. LUaiiy illtCreSting spots the XATHANIF.I,. 

traveller jiasses on this 

route : there is the pass near the now ruined Castle of Eernstein, called the Eeriqiass, a 
favourite spot of the late Ludwig 11. ; and, in addition to this, one sliould not miss the very 
picturesque villages of Mittenwald and Lermos, comfortably nestling between high 
mountains. 



TIIF. ASCKNSION. 









AMES TILLEY and Snsaii liis wife 
l( 3 oked upon their one son, Raymond 
Granville, as the child of their old age, 
sent to them as Isaac was sent to Abram and 
Sarai by the especial favour of Heaven, 
dames was only forty-two and Susan a year 
older when the son came, but they had been 
married twenty years, lacking live months, 
and, save for a girl that came in the tliird 
year of their marriage, and lived live days, 
they bad had no other child. 

Mrs. Tilley had decided Avhat the boy's 
name should be long years before he was 
born. She often sat, her hands upon her la]3, 
lost in reverie, and always recovered herself 
with a sliow of clieerfnl vigour. 

“ diiu,” site would say, “ iv we ever do have 
a bwoy he shall be called Raymond Granville. 
They be two zo pretty names as I knows.” 

“ Iv you’ll be quick and have a bwoy,” 
dames once retorted with surprising humour, 
“ you can call he Xebuchadnezzar doshophat, 
iv you be zo minded.” 

Mrs. Tilley did not tell her husband that 
she had decided on Raymond Granville after 
long and critical consideration of the rival 
claims of Archil)ald Philip Blowham, 
Augustus Herbert Simpson, Clare Arthur, 
and Percy Ewart Simpson, Rlowham being 
her own maiden name and Simpson the 
maiden name of her mother. AVhen slie 
was alone in the house slie Avould call 
upstairs to her imaginary child— 

‘‘ Perry Eirart, come, (lotc/i, my love,'' or 
“ R\.aymoiiil Granville, it is ti)ne to yet ap." 

* Copvri.nlit, moo, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
I >lilted States of America. 


And, again, she would hold converse with 
an imaginary visitor— 

What a fine boy, Mrs. Tilley! what is 
h is name ? ” 

“ Aayustas Herbert Simpson, ma'am." 

Or, again, she would l)c [)resent at Sunday 
School on the prize day - 

“ First Prize—Archibal i Philip Blowham 
Tilley. Come forward, Archibald." 

From these ])ractical tests Raymond 
Granville emerged triumphant. 

It may sound intensely foolish : neverthe¬ 
less Mrs. Tilley was not at all a silly woman. 
In the first years of her wedded life she had 
bi’ooded aiid grieved in secret over her child¬ 
lessness, at times having a morbid dread that 
her husband’s affection might be alienated, 
and the consideration of a suitable name for 
the son it might please God to send her took 
her from her sorrow more tlian her duties or 
converse with her neighbours. 

“ It bain’t voolishness,” she told lier 
husband. “ Iv we did happen to get a bwoy, 
and no name ready, I might put meself all in 
a stew at clioosen a prapper name. There 
be Mrs. Daw made herself reel ill over 
namen her maid and not bechi in one mind 
two days rnnnen.” 

Her prayers were answered at last: but 
Raymond 'Granville was not a model l)aby, 
nor even up to the average of our village ; 
and neighbours and friends could not go 
into ecstasies about his prettiness, or strength, 
or ])liimpness. He came into the world a 
puling, ailing infant, and took none of his 
infaqtile dilficnlties with philosophical calm 
and ease, and many times ifc seemed as though 
his bodv was too frail a tenement for a living 







204 


THE WIXDHOR MAGAZIXH. 


spirit. But still lie was the deepest joy of 
his parents. Daily Mrs. Tilley tliauked (led 
for him, and never rejiined because, as the 
profane writer has it, the gods never give 
with both hands. His moderate intelli¬ 
gence was magnified into almormal cleverness 
by his parents’ fond hearts. j\lrs. Tilley was 
determined he should not l)e a farm hand, 
and so, poor lad, because fresh air and out¬ 
door life were the only medicines for his 
delicate constitution, he was put into a 
grocer’s shop in Dorchester. The frugal 
couple out of tweh’e shillings a week had 
saved twenty pounds, and hoped to save 
thrice as much in the next dozen years 
if the two sows did their duty, and it 
was the mother’s dream to put him in a 
shop of his own by the time he reached 
his majority, and to see liim a leading 
townsman, and perhaps mayor, before he 
died. Thus do mothers dream, and, thank 
God, they find comfort and compensa¬ 
tion in their dreams for the sorrows of 
motherhood. 

it must not be supposed, however, that 
Mrs. Tilley was concerned only with lier 
son’s advaucement in wealth and honours. 
She knew he was a good lad. The Vicar 
had told her liimself that Raymond always 
knew his Catechism perfectly Avhen the 
Sunday School was examined, and he always 
had his Collect lea,rut olf by heart by the 
middle of the week, and repeated it to her 
every evening. Resides that, he read a 
chapter of the Bible to her every day, and 
she assured her friends that our Vicar himself 
couldn’t read it bettei*. Yes, Raymond was 
a good lad. 

“ Iv the Lord,” she said to the pastor one 
day, “ was a long time in zenden en to we, 
zir. He \vas good enough to pick out one ov 
the best, and 1 tlnink Him vor it.” 

At eighteen Raymond was a tall, lanky 
youth, with a pale, freckled face, tired- 
looking eyes, shaky knees, and the beginnings 
of a cough. He came home every week-end 
as joyful as though he had been absent a 
twelvemonth. 

Almost as soon as he entered his mother 
would mysteriously whisper, “ Have ’ee made 
any mwore thease wik, my dear ? ” and 
Raymond would beam with intensest pleasure 
when he could, and that was nearly always, 
nod in assent. i\Irs. Tilley shai’ed in a 
wonderful secret that was not as yet even 
revealed to the father. Iidi/.tioiid Uranville 
Tilli'U irrofe poHrt/. 

Raynioud had just turueil sixteen when he 
took his mother into his confidence. It was 


her birthday, and he had composed a poem 
of three verses in honour of it. He copied 
it out ill his best handwriting, placed it in 
an envelope, addressed it to “Mrs. Tilley, 
MTiite Cottages,” and ])laced it on the mantel¬ 
piece wliere she would be sure to see it directly 
she came down in the morning. Raymond 
Granville had given his mother many 
moments of deep joy, but never joy as 
profound and exquisite as that. The first 
verse ran— 

O mother, dear, I love tliee well, 

I love thee more than tongue can tell; 

(Jod give thee many happy days, 

And 1 shall always sing thy praise. 

Mrs. Tilley wept, and took her boy iii her 
arms and kissed him, and then held the 
poem before her at arm’s length, wliilst tears 
of joy so exquisite and pure rolled down her 
cheeks that the angels might have gathered 
them as choice jewels, meet to adorn the 
gates of the New derusalem. 

“ You never wrote all thease yourself, my 
bwoy ? ” she cried. 

“ Yes, I did, mother. I did it all iu a 
week. I don’t know myself how ever I did 
come to do it, except I w'as alius fond of 
potry. Aow, take that first word ; you might 
think it be spelt wrong. Now, how do you 
spell it ? ” 

“ 0—h, 1 z’pose.” 

“ Yes, you would, now, wouldn’ ’ee ? But, 
do ’ee see, in potry you alius ought to spell 
it like that—just letter 0. If you couldii’ 
tell by tlie verses and the capital letters, you 
could tell it be potry by that letter. And 
there be another thing. You do say ‘thou’ 
and ‘ thee ’ in potry, instead of ‘ you.’ It do 
sound more like potry. Not that ‘ you ’ would 
be wrong, but it bain’t as poetical.” 

“ It be wonnerful, my darlen. I don’t 
believe tliere be anybody iu thease place can 
make potry. In fact, I be sure ov it. 
Ihissou hisself couldii’, I know,” iu a tone of 
proud conviction. 

“ Then you be pleased with it ? I thought 
as you might be.” 

“Pleased ? ” cried ^Irs. Tilley, and again 
she took her son iu her arms and Avept over 
him. 

It was agreed it should be kept a secret 
from the father, for a time at least. There 
was no particular reason for it, save that to 
them, as to many jieople who lead humdrum 
lives, the poorest secret is a treasure, and 
that Mrs. Tilley was afraid her husband, 
who had no taste for verse, might sliow no 
great enthusiasm at being the fathei’ of a 
poet. 


THE POETS LOVE. 


2(ir) 


A week or two later Mrs. Tilley's joy was, 
if possible, intensified. Raymond allowed 
lier to read two verses of a hymn he had 
partly composed. The rhyme and rhythm 
were halting, and Raymond’s hymn will 
never be found in a hymn-hook, but it 
uplifted one woman’s heart to a jubilant 
Magnijiait^ and many hymns of faultless 
rhythm and more perfect phrasing have not 
accomplished so innch. 

‘‘ But you didn’ write that yourself ? ” she 
cried, that she might have the luxury again 
of being assured that she was wrong. 

‘‘ Yes, I did, mother.” 


“ Reg'lar as a clock, inotlu r,'’ he replied. 
“ Tt bain't much of a cough.” 

So great was her anxiety that his con¬ 
science pricked him, and at last he confessed. 
‘‘ J)o ’ee see, I liave made a \’erse or two, but 
I didn’ think you’d care for ’em. They— 
they bain’t hymns,'’ and Raymond tried to 
laugh, but his face burnt so vehemently that 
the tears came in his eyes. 

“ Now, don’t ’ee gwo vor to think that, my 
bwoy ; I don’t expect ’ee alius to make 
hymns. Let I zee ’em.” 

‘‘ I know you won’t care for ’em, hut you 
can read ’em if you like,” and attempting 




*• • It bfc aliont !i maid, I zeo,' slie said slowly, tlio faiiitcst trace of liostilitv in her Ioik'.” 


“Well, there Itain’t a better hymn in the 
hymn-book. Tt ought to Inive a toon made 
vor it and be put in a hymn-book.” 

So it went on week after week, and there 
was always at least a verse for the mother’s 
heart. But at last, one Satiu’day near Easter¬ 
tide, when he came home, he blushed and 
shook his head when his mother asked 
if he had anything for her. The next 
week it was the same, and it was with 
some difficulty he succeeded in convincing 
her that he was not ill. 

“ I hope you will get rid ov thik cough 
tliease s])rimr, Raymond. Do ’ee drink that 
stuff reg'lar I made ’ee ? ” 


another laugh he took a gilt-edged card from 
his pocket-book and handed it to her. 

“ lIoAv pretty yon Inn’e \ATote it,” she said 
as she adjusted her spectacles. “ It be zo 
])lain as print. 1 zee at Avunst it be potry, 
'cos yon have got letter 0 there : I haven’ 
Amrgot,” and to his manifest discomposure 
she proceeded to read it al-oud. 

0 lovely form, with eyc.s so blue, 

Your heart is sweet and tender and true ! 

To be close to you, and your lips to kiss, 
Would surely be the beiitht of bliss. 

!Mrs. Tilley looked u]-) curiously. “ Tt be 
about a maid, I zee,” she said sloAvly, the 
faintest trace of hostility in her tone. 





THE WiXJjSOIl MAGAZINE, 


20(; 


“Yes.” Raymoiid Oranville tried to 
laugh. At first he liad bluslied, l)nt liis 
emotion was now beyond l)lusliing ; Ids face 
was grey. 

“ Ees, I zee it l)e,” repeated Mrs. Tilley, 
and resumed her reading. 

No maid 'vvith Kosie can compare, 

For she is of beauty rare. 

Of all the <z;irl.s that 1 have seen 
Kosie of them all is (pieen. 

Before i\[rs. Tilley could make any 
comment Raymond broke in nervously, 
“ They baiirt bad verses, I ’low. Don’t ’ee 
thiidv so, mother ? ” 

“ Oh, ees, it be good potry. It do come zo 
easy off the tongue,” she said rather 
grudgingly. The best of mothers never 
hears without a pang of a possible rival in 
a son’s affection. “ But—but who be Rosie, 
that it be al)Out ? ” she asked. 

“Oil, do ’ee see, motlier, when you do 
Avrite potry you can })ut in any name you 
like,” he said, with another burst of nervous 
laughter. “Just what name do strike ’ee, 
do ’ee see, as Avill be easy to rhyme. I 
might just so Avell have put Mary or Sarah 
or Martini, but—but that one do sound 
prettier, don’t ’ee think ? ” 

“ It do sound pi’etty enough. But, 
serious, my Invoy, bain’t there zome maid 
you be vond ov doAvn to Dorchester ? ” 

Raymond at last said there was a nice, 
lady-like maid that came to the shop. But 
he Avasn’t courting. 

“ I—I do hope she be a good maid,” said 
Mrs. Tilley AAdtli difficulty. 

“Dll, she’s real good, mother ; that Avas 
Avdiat made I take to her. She do go to 
church reg’lar, and only last Tuesday Avhen 
she come in for some eggs she told I about 
the beautiful sermon Mr. Perrett, doAvn to 
St. John’s, did preach last Sunday. She did 
know the text and a good deal of the sermon. 

‘ Oh, he’s fiUch a beautiful preacher,’ she did 
say.” 

Mrs. Tilley nodded approvingly. “ Mhat 
be her name ? ” 

“ Let I see, uoav ! Agnes ? Ada ? Xo 
—oh, Annie—Annie Lesby, I belieA^e.” 

“ I used to know some Lesbvs, Piddleham 
way.” 

“ Did ’ee, uoav ?” said Raymond. But his 
conscience Avas dominant, ami rather jjainfully 
he yielded to it. “ She hax^e another name, 
haven’t she ? ” he said musingly. “ Oh, yes, 
to be sure—R. A. Lesby. Ruth or Rose 
the R do stand for, I thiidv.” 

Mrs. Tilley restrained herself from making 
the obvious rejoinder, “ I thought so.” 


Although the mother of one child, loA^e had 
made her Avise. “ AVhat do she do, Ray¬ 
mond ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh, she be the housemaid Avith old Mrs. 
Parr, mother.” 

“ llaA^e ’ee made it up with she, my 
IjAVoy ? ” 

“ Me ? Xo,” and then the floodgates 
Avere up and Raymond poured out the Avhole 
story. Rosie sometimes came to the shop 
and he had tlie good fortune to serve her, 
and latterly he had gone once a. Aveek to the 
house to take orders and Rosie had chatted 
to him quite pleasantly. Ifut one evening 
AAdien the sliop Avas closed he Avas taking a 
Avalk on the Weymouth Road Avhen he 
happened to meet her—quite by accident, he 
Avas careful to explain. “ I said,” went on 
Raymond, “ Avhat a nice CAxmen, and how 
fresh things did look after the rain ; and Ave 
talked for a bit. She did say she Avas goin’ 
to the Aveek-night service, she did enjoy i\Ir. 
Perrett’s preachen so. And I said I should 
like to hear him, I did so enjoy a good 
preacher ; and she laughed a I)it and said 1 
Avas very Avelcome to go A\ith her if I liked. 
Mr. Perrett preached such a nice sermon— 
and it was very nice, I quite enjoyed it. I 
—I couldn’ do no less than walk Avith she 
Iiack to the house after. And this Aveek I 
Avent Avitli her ageii.” 

“ But haven’ ’ee told tlie maid vou do like 
h er ? ” 

“ Xo,” said Raymond Dranville. “ Do 
’ee-” 

“ But you do like her, my bAvoy ? ” 

“Oil, just al)out ! She lie such a nice 
maid, and such a good maid, too, do ’ee see, 
mother.” 

“Well, I should like to zee she,” said 
Mrs. Tilley, determined to make the sacriflee 
unniggardly. “ You must ask she here to 
tea next Zunday ; I should like to zee her. 
Zay I should be glad to give her a cup ov 
tea if she Avill come, and make her Avelcome. 

• . . . I hope she be a good maid.” 

“ Oh, she be, mother, a real good maid — 
and pretty, too. I knoAA' you’ll like her,” 
and Raymond kissed his mother in afl’ec- 
tion and gratitude. 

Raymond Granville had promised his 
mother Avith glad enthusiasm that he Avould 
ask Rose to visit her; but the folloAving 
morning Avhen he Avent back to Dorchester 
he saAv difficulties. Hoav could he ask her 
AA’lien they AAxre not engaged ? He bluslied 
hotly at the thought of it. He could not 
very Avell say, “ I’ve told mother you’re a 
nice, good maid, and she do AA^ant you to 



THE POETE LOVE. 


207 


come to tea next Sunday, and if slie tliinks 
yoidll do, then we'll o^et enpiged.” Mven 
supposing, which was wildly iniprobahle, she 
consented without asking einharrassing (pies- 
tions, everybody wdio saw^ them w'ould sup¬ 
pose they w’ere engaged, and how’ awkward 
it w'ould be if she refused him. 

Eaymond was occupied Avith the problem 
all day. He at last came to the conclusion 
that there was only one honourable and 
satisfactory Avay out of the difficulty, llefore 
he asked her to^go home with him he must 
propose to her and be accepted. Unfortu¬ 
nately, proposing w’as not one of the easiest 
things in the w'orld, and he lay awake for an 
hour or Uvo elaborating ingenious schemes 
for “ Proposing made Easy.” 

He w’as very gloomy at breakfast next 
morning, but in good spirits a little later 
Avhen it occurred to him that he could propose 
by letter. In his dinner-hour he w^ent out 
and bought a sixpenny ‘‘ Complete Letter 
Writer,” and turned to the section on “ Love, 
Courtship, and Marriage.” There w’ei'e three 
model letters on “ Hoav to Propose,” but 
Eaymond Avas disappointed wdth them. After 
long consideration, hoAA’CA^er, he adopted the 
form, though not the phraseology, of the 
first model letter of proposal, Avhich had for 
sub-title, “ To a lady Avho you think Avill 
look favourably on your suit.” 

Eaymond devoted nearly tAA^o hours that 
evening to the composition of the letter, 
and made it doubly secure in the envelope 
by a prodigal display of sealing-Avax. 

“Dear Mrss Lesry ”—it ran— 

“ I hope you Avill not think it too 
bold of me to Avrite this here letter to you, 
for it is not boldness but affection that makes 
me do it. How^ I feel about you I can never 
tell, but I Avill say this much, that I 
never seen no female that I like so Avell as 
you ; in fact, if I may say so wi’thout giving 
offence, I do loA'e you truly, and I should be 
real glad to Avalk out Avith you. I can’t tell 
you hoAV much I think about you all the day. 
I don’t know if you care for me at all, but 
if you do, and are Avilling to Avalk out Avith 
one who is fonder of you than tongue can 
tell, please come to the raihvay-station gates 
to-night at seA^en o’clock. If you come, I 
shall knoAV that it is all right ; if you don’t, 
I don’t knoAV how I shall get on. Nobody 
could be so fond of you as me, although I 
have seen you so feAV times. 

“ With best respects, I am 

“ Yours, very truly, 

“ Eayvioxd Graxville Tilley.” 


Lover-like, be AAxas full of doubts and fears 
Avhen the letter bad gone. He blushed hotly 
at the thought that she might laugh at it 
and shoAV it to her felloAV-servants. He 
dreaded the meeting, and Avondered Avliy he 
had been such a fool as not to ask for an 
ansAver by letter. 

He got there at last, and almost at the 
same instant Eose came up, out of breath 
Avith hurrying, but Avith joy Avritten in every 
line of her face. “ Good evenen,” she said. 

“Good eA’enen,” he said, quite pale hoav. 
“ You did get iny—my letter, then ? ” 

“ 1 never felt so took, back in all my life,” 
said Eose Ann. “ I had to read it three 
times afore I’d believe it. I felt so happy 
I didn’ knoAV Avhat to do Avith meself. ‘ To 
think that he cares for I,’ I said to meself.” 

“ Then you—you did like it ? ” asked 
Eaymond, raising his eyes to her face. 

“ I shan’t say,” laughed Eose Ann ; but 
Eavmond had seen her face, and there AA^as 
no need for w'ords. 

They Avalked on, Eose Ann talking 
volubly. She carefully explained that she 
Avas dusting the draAving-room Avhen the cook 
came up and said there aaixs a letter for her. 
“ I said it conldn’ be for I,” AAmit on Eose 
Ann ; “but it Avas, and I sat doAvn straight 
in the middle of my Avork and read it and 
read it again. I conldn’ tell you how I’ve 
felt about it all day. ‘ To think he do care 
for I,’ I did say.” 

“ I do care for you, just about,” said 
Eaymond. 

“ ]\Iy folks will be pleased—I mean my 
brother and his Avife, and my sister Charlotte. 
I haven’ got no father and mother.” 

“ I be sorry for that,” said Eaymond 
sympathetically. “ iMy—my mother Avill be 
pleased, too. I told she I’d had an eye on a 
maid, but I’d said nothen yet. ‘ Well,’ she 
says, ‘you’d better speak to she at once, for 
you liaA^e to bring her to tea here next 
Sunday.’ I declared I conkin’, but she 
Avouldn’ hear of ‘ No ’ at all. It be your 
Sunday out, I knoAV, and I shall Avait for 
you, my dear, and drive you out Sunday 
afternoon to our place.” 

Eose Ann stopped and eyed him Avith a 
most severe froAvn. “ Of all the impudence 
I cA^er did hear ! ” she cried. “ Do you 
think, Mr. Tilley, I could go visiten your 
folks and only engaged this evenen ? Don’t 
you think it, for I conldn’ on no account.” 

Eaymond had Avritten poems about 
maidens, but he had still something to learn. 
His face fell and he blushed at his oavu 
audacity. Eose Ann, hoAA^ever, AA^as quick to 


THE Wisimil MAdAZlXE. 


:>i)S 


perceive that he had taken it Jiterally, and 
liastened to explain. “ I slionld be so sliy, L 
shoiddii’ know how to face them,” she said. 

“ Oh, but yon could,” he rejoined eagei'ly. 
“ J know, my dear, that mother will take to 
you at once.” 

Rose Ann was sure that she could never do 
it; but there, she would go througli fire and 
water to oblige Raymond ! Raymond was 
sure she would say she had had a real good 
time, and he should be there with her. 

Tliey sat down and spoke of their likes 
and dislikes. Rose Ann, to Raymond’s 
intense joy, was fond of poetry. 

“ I Avas alius one for potry,”- she said. “ I 
know, I nied say Avithout boasten, hundreds 
of lovely verses. If ever I see any nice verses, 
I can’t rest till I’ve learned ’em. ‘ Xoav, then,’ 
father ^used to say to home Sunday evenens, 
‘now then. Rose Ann, just say we some 
potry,’ and I did straight aAvay.” 

‘‘ I—I like potry,” said Raymond, his 
voice tremulous from sheer joy. “ How 
queer it be that I should find you out, my 
dear, when Ave both do like tlie same things !” 

“ I took to you, my dear, from the very 
first,” Rose responded. 

“ I feel very thankful Ave tAvo met, my 
dear,” said the lad, Avith strong feeling, and 
quite suddenly he kissed her passionately. 

It AA'as so unexpected that Rose Ann’s face 
and neck flushed and tingled Avith sudden 
heat, and she shrank from him slightly. 
Raymond looked scared. “ I hope you—you 
dicin’ mind ? ” he said, fearing that he had 
made a hopeless blunder. 

“ It took I by—surprise, do ’ee see,” said 
Rose Ann, Avith her head bent down. “ But 

don’t think- I— I did—like it—just 

about.” 

Raymond laughed in high relief. “ 1 
thought you Avould,” he said. “ Here’s 
another, and another, and another.” 


Rose Ann had sufficient Avisdom to 
recognise that sweetness and goodness are 
not as likely to strike a stranger at first 
sight as a pretty face and becoming attire, 
and she took extraordinary pains to make 
a good impression. One of her chief 
attractions Avas her luxuriant broAvn hair, 
but after spending nearly an hour in di’ess- 
ing it, she had to call in the cook to do it 
for lier. Her frocks gave her as much 
trouble, and after trying three skirts, two 
bodices, and three blouses, in different com¬ 
binations, she came to the cook’s opinion that 
the black merino skirt and Avhite muslin 


l)louse, Avith tAvo red I’oses on her bosom. Was 
tlie most l)ecoming. Her hat gaA'e lier caxii 
more trouble than her frock, and it Avas only 
after trying all she had, and one of the cook’s, 
that she finally decided on the straAVAvith the 
pink feathers and ribbon. And Avlien at last 
she sui’A^eyed the tovt en.^mhle in the mirror, 
and saAv hoAv painfully flushed her face aaus 
A vith her exertions, tears of vexation came 
into her eyes, and slie told her reflection she 
“ looked a perfect fright, and for tAA’o pins 
she Avould ll’ go.” AVlien Rnymond called 
for her, liOAveA'er, his sincere admiration re¬ 
stored her to a pleasant frame of mind. 

“ My ! ” lie said, “ you do look real pretty, 
my dear ; Avhite do become you first-rate. I 
knoAV mother Avill be taken AA'itli you, UiV 
darlen.” 

“ 1 feel that nervous about it 1 can’t tell,” 
she said. “ I feel so sure as sure your 
mother Avon’t like I.” 

“ Noav, don’t, my love,” said Raymond, and 
left the horse to itself AA’hile he pressed the 
maiden’s hands betAveen his. “Don’t you. 
trouble, my love. I knoAv you and mother 
Avill get on famous.” 

It Avas Avell that Mr. Fielder had only 
trusted Raymond Granville Avith his “ cour- 
ten boss.” Mr. Fielder so styled that aged 
and trustAvorthy animal because it plodded 
along at six or seven miles an hour, regard¬ 
ing neither Avhip nor caresses, and AA^as 
startled at nothing. Neither traction-engine, 
locomotive Avhistle, nor even crackers could 
arouse it from its philosophic calm. “I 
knoAv,” Mr. Fielder Avould say in explanation, 
“ Avhat a young veller driven out a vemale 
be. He do AA-aiit a boss that don’t need no 
looken avter Avhatzoever, ’cos Avhen nobody 
be about he do Avaiit to kiss and cuddle she. 
1 once did let a young veller have a spirited 
young boss to take his gal out, and thik trap 
did come back Avith one shaft and no splash¬ 
boards, and you couldn’ see the young chap 
vor sticken-plaster. Noav, ‘ Lovey ’ AA'ouldn’ 
shy iv you let dynermite off under her nose ; 
and AAdien a young veller comes I alius 
Avhispers very perlite, ‘ GAvain to take the 
young lady out ? ’ and Avhen he says lie be, I 
alius gives en ‘ Lovey.’ ” 

Raymond Avas as nervous as Rosie Avhen he 
dreAV up at the garden-gate Avhere Mrs. Tilley 
Avas aAvaiting them. He jumped doAvn and 
kissed his mother and then helped Rosie to 
alight. “ This be Rose Ann, mother,” he 
said. Mrs. Tilley apparently had not be- 
stoAved more attention on the girl than 
politeness required, but her eyes Avere shar¬ 
pened by jealous love for lier son, and 




•• ‘How be, niy clear? ’ 












210 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Ilayniond knew tliat she had already weiglicd 
Ids darling’ in the balances. He conld have 
shouted for joy when Mrs. Tilley smiled 
sweetly on the girl and, saying, ‘‘ How be, 
my dear ? ” kissed tier. It was all right, it 
was all right, and o\erflowing with happi¬ 
ness he flnug Ids arms about Ids mother and 
kissed her again. 

Mrs. Tilley oondncted Eose Ann upstairs 
to take off her things, and, to Raymond’s relief, 
they came down langidng and cliatting to¬ 
gether, and he conld see that his beloved had 
been accepted with cordiality, at least. The 
kettle was boiling, and there was no oppor¬ 
tunity for private talk before they sat down 
to tea. Rose Ann, with a woman’s intuition, 
praised the raspberry-and-cjiirrant jam^—^it 
was well-deserved praise—iii([nired how it 
was made, and finally, with much diffidence, 
asked for the “receipt” for the cake, of 
which she had two helpings, that she might 
give it to her sister-in-law. 

AVhat is man’s diplomacy to woman’s ? 
Rose Ann had found her way to the inner 
cliamber of Mrs. Tilley’s heart. She called 
her son into the kitchen. 

“ MTiat I’ve zeen ov her she be a ^’ery 
nice maid,” she whispei’ed in his gratified ears. 

Mother, Raymond, and Rose Ann took a 
walk till the hour for service, l)nt Raymond, 
to his infinite content, had little part in the 
convei’sation, and lingered behind tliat they 
might talk unrestrainedly. 

Mother was glad that Raymond had made 
so sensible a choice, though she didn’t mind 
confessing that for a time she was the leastest 
bit afraid he might be deceived. 

“ But now I have zeen ’ee, my dear—^well, 
I did never thiidc I could take to anybody 
zo quick. I hope you both may be happy 
togeder.” 

“ Thank ’ee,” said Rose Ann. Her ears 
were not the acutest, l)ut when Mrs. Tilley 
went on to speak of her son’s character, she 
was conscious of an indefinable something in 
the mother’s tone that made music. Poor 
and rustic as Mrs. Tilley’s vocabulary was, 
at that moment she conld have stood beside 
the mightiest wielders of the English tongue 
and shamed them. For she spoke with an 
imperial, a celestial accent, her words dyed 
through and through with the purest and 
holiest passion that can inflame the human 
lieart—maternal love. 

“ What do ’ee think 'bout his potry ? ” 
asked Mrs. Tilley. “ Do ’ee like it ? ” 

“ Potry ? I don’t know what you do mean.” 

“ Haven’ he told you, my dear ? ” And 
Mrs. Tilley entered into the details with zest. 


“ Verses aliont I ? ” e^’clainled Rosie. 
“ Well, there ! ” 

Raymond’s delight was exquisite when he 
confessed his gift of poetry to his mother, 
but, perliaps, tlie most blissful moment in his 
life was when, after delicious persuasion, he 
showed Rosie the metrical expression of his 
love in' her. He had copied all that she 
had inspired in a little pocket-book which 
he carried in his waistcoat pocket. Poetical 
diamonds, they deserved a fair setting, and 
Raymond had spent hours in ornamenting 
each page with fancy scroll-work. 

“ I don’t know whether to let you see 

them, my dear,” he said, as he opened the 
l)Ook. “Xone of ’em be up to much.” 

“ How can you say it, my darlcn ? ” said 
Rose Ann, in the tone of , one who is listening 
to blasphemy. 

“ AYell, but don’t say you like ’em if you 
don’t, because I shan’t mind, my dear, one 
little bit,” and Raymond read softly tliat 
passion-laden lyric, “ 0 lovely form, with eyes 
so hhieW 

“ Yon didn’ Avrite that about I ? ” 
asked Rose Anne in a wliisjier, her eyes 
glistening. 

“ I did ; I wrote it tliat evening when [ 
spoke to you outside the church. I went 
for a walk by myself and thouglit it all out 

then. It did come itself,.most of it.” 

“ Rosie of then all is qaepnf she repeated 
softly, with tears in her eyes. “ I—I—do 
’ee see, I bain’t worthy—I did never think ” 
—and slie took the liook from him and 
kissed the ])age passionately, then kissed 
Raymond. “ If everybody was so happy as 
I, it would be like heaven,” she said softly. 


That year the winter came early, with 
many days of biting east Avind in November, 
and Raymond, in spite of the thick Avinter 
flannels liis mother made for him, and the 
big bottle of linseed tea, sweetened Avith 
Spanish liquorice, he carried from home 
e\-ery Aveek, could not escape a bad cold, 
Avhich settled on his chest. His cough 
alarmed his mother, but he laughed at her 
fears and declared that he might as Avell 
go to the doctor as take back every Aveek 
four sorts of liome-prepared medicines and 
a heavy load of advice. Nevertheless, 
he dutifully obeyed her instructions and 
SAvalloAved the concoctions as regularly as he 
Avonld have done had his mother’s eye been 
n])on him. It Avas early in December that 
Raymond’s conscience troubled him over a 
lie he told his mother, although he 


THE POF/rS LOVE. 


•211 


{is:;ured liiinsolf that for her sake lie was 
jiistihed. She suddenly accused him, on no 
other ground hnt tluit of maternal intuition, 
of spitting blood, and lie denied it thrice. 
The truth was, it liad occurred tliree times 
that week. 

Kose Ann came to spend Christmas Day 
with the Tilleys, and on Boxing Day Kay- 
mond was to go with her to be introduced to 
her brother and his wife. He was in extra¬ 
ordinary good spirits on Christmas Day, but 
the next morning it was obvious he was too 
unwell to accompany Eosie, though he tried 
to disguise his indisposition and insisted that 
it was only a “bit of a headaclic.” The 
truth was lie had caught a fresh cold on his 
journey liome late on Christmas Eve, and 
*]\Irs. Tilley, greatly alarmed, called in the 
doctor. ()ur doctor has been with us many 
years, and he calls himself the physical 
pastor of our village. In appearance he is a 
rough, burly farmer, brusque in manner 
and fiery in speech. He is terrible to those 
who do not obey his orders, and can draw 
from a vast reservoir of profanity. But at 
heart he is a Christian gentleman, who 
counts a patient’s life more than lucre, and a 
mother’s gratitude more than reputation. 
He knew Mrs. Tilley’s heart was bound up 
in her son ; he had brought him into the 
world and knew all his constitutional weak¬ 
nesses. AVheu ]\Irs. Tilley, with scared face, 
asked him if it was serious, he roughly told 
her not to be a fool—couldn’t a boy have a 
bit of a cold without all that fuss ? 

“ But lie—he is spitteii blood, doctor ; I 
zeen it thease marneii.” 

“ And what if he is ? ” asked the doctor 
sarcastically. “Spitting quarts of it every 
day, I suppose ? Just go and make some 
mutton-broth ; he’ll have no blood to spit 
up if you neglect him this way.” 

He had touched her rightly, he knew, but 
he shook his head as he strode down the 
road. He met the Yicar coming out of the 
schools and stopped him. 

“ You’ve something before yon, IMonsal, 
T’ni sorry to say,” he said. “ You’ll have to 
try to comfort a mother’s heart when her 
one laud) is taken.” 

“ Who ? ” asked the Yicar. 

“ That poor lad of Tilley’s. He’s always 
been a weakly little beggar, but the finishing 
touch has come. Consumption.” 

“ Yon haven’t told her, Westacott ? ” 

“ I’m not an utter fool, for one thing, and, 
for another, I couldn’t. Thank God that 
is not my province I ” 

•2;- * % * -S'* 


Eayniond sent a message to ^Ir. Kelway 
that he had caught a bad cold, and was not life 
for Avork for a day or two. The followii g 
Aveek he had to send a similar message, and 
thereupon Mr. Kelway came to see him and 
brought him several delicacies. Before he 
returned home KelAvay saAV ])r. AVestacott, 
Avho confirmed his suspicions that Eayniond 
Avould ncA'Cr serve in his shop again. 

“ 1 be thankful, my bAAmy,” said Mrs. Tilley, 
Avhen Avith the K eAV Year came a long spell 
of severe Aveather, “ I be zo thankful you 
bain’t Avell enough to gAvo to Avork thease 
Aveather. You’ll be all "the better vor resteu 
noAV, and all the stronger AA'lien spring do 
come.” 

“ Yes, 1 never did like cold AA^eather,” said 
Eayniond, and turned again to the poem 
on “Christmas” he Avas composing. All 
the day long he Avas in the throes of com¬ 
position, and in his poetical ardour almost 
forgot his ailments. That AA^e had a poet in 
our village Avas no longer a secret, as Mrs. 
Tilley in her pride and joy could no longer 
hide it from her neighbours. AVIien a 
neighbour looked in to see hoAV the “ pore 
bAAmy be,” Mrs. Tilley in a coniidential 
Avhisper Avould ask her “ not to speak loud, 
as Eaymond Avas just maken a lovely verse, 
and talken put en off.” 

“ Yery creditable indeed,” Avas our Yicar’s 
verdict Avhen he had read the verses. He 
lent Tennyson and LongfelloAV and other 
poets to Eaymond, and pointed out their 
beauties to him. 

“ They be better poetry than mine,” said 
Eayniond to his mother, “ though AAotli 
practice 1 niiglit do as good somewhen.” 

“ Yours be the best by a gni*t lunq),” said 
Mrs. Tilley. “ Why, zonie ov thease bain’t 
poetry ; it don’t rhyme at all.” 

January Avas a month of frost and snoAV. 
February brought chill and drear rains, and 
Eaymond, though his spirits never failed him, 
did not get stronger. But Avith the balmy 
days of spring, as his mother insisted, Avould 
come iieAV life and strength. 

“ You’ll be stronger than ever after thease,” 
]\Irs. Tilley prophesied daily, and Eaymond 
cordially agreed. 

“ I shall fly round like a young horse,” he 
said. 

Eaymond Avrote to Eose Ann once a Aveek, 
and every Sunday she came to see him. It 
Avas, I think, the SAveetest and tenderest love 
story of our village. Eose Ann Avas in full 
bloom of health and radiant maidenhood, 
but her tenderness to her sick king, aaJio Avas 
also poet, AA’as beautiful to look upon. 


THt: WlNDSOIl MAGAZINE. 


'1 1 



Mrs. Tilley had taken the <>’irl to her heart 
as her own dangliter. Tt would be altou’etlier 
fatuous to speeulate as to wliieh loved the 
boy most, but he ])assed liis days in au 
atmos|)liere of love and devotion. It was a 
privilege to see tlie joy end pride of Rose 
Anil wlien allowed to minister to him. 
Every time she came she was allowed to 
make a milk ])udding or other delicacy for 
him, and he always ate every scrap of it. 


He could not over¬ 
come his repugnance 
to cod-liver oil, and 
was inclined to be 
rebellious when the 
nauseating dose was 
placed before him. 
But when Rose Aiiu 
poured it out, tasted 
it, laughingly pro¬ 
nounced it good, and 
promised him three 
kisses, he swallowed 
it with a smile. 

Sunday afternoon 
and evening was 
given up to them for 
“ courten.” They 
were happy, smiling 
lovers, building their 
future home and fur¬ 
nishing it, down to 
the saucepans in the 
kitchen. Theirs was 
to be an ideal home, 
and it was in tensest 
pleasure to reckon u}) 
the probable cost of 
a nest that would 
satisfy such happy 
birds. Raymond’s 
chiefest joy would be 
to sit with her iii the 
evenings, reading to 
her or writing poetry. 
Rose Ann knew that 
she should be looking- 
forward all day to 
his coming home. 
They should want no 
visitors, save, of 
course — and they 
both blushed and 
laughed softly—the 
visitors with tiuy feet 
and clambering 
limbs, a girl first and 
then a boy. Foolish 
’lo\'ers, who saw not 
the shadow of the wings of tlie dread angel. 
Ves ; l)ut where lo^'(; is, and hearts as the 
hearts of little children, there is the Kingdom 
of Heaven. 


Tlie warm days of IMay came, but they 
brought 110 strength, and one day AVestacott 
sent the A^icar with the death-warrant. Airs. 
Tilley’s anguish was too intolerable to 



7W/; POETS LOVE. 


218 


witness. AVhen ^[r. ^Monsal was gone slie 
went to her li)edrooni and, with tears of 
agonising entreaty, prayed that lier boy 
might bespa:ed to her—her boy, who was so 
clever and good. “ He be a real good bwoy, 
Tliou do know, 0 Lord, as has tried to serve 
Thee faithfnl, and lie used his gift in maken 
liyinns. 0 God, spare en, vor Christ's sake.” 
Then her prayer would become moi’e rebel¬ 
lious, and she'^told her God that it was not 
fair to take him when lie was so clever and 
good. “ He be the only one I have, dear 
Lord,” she said, “ and there be ])lenty as 
have too many. Let him be, 0 Loixl.” 

It was a Saturday when she knew, and she 
saw little of her boy that day because she 
could command neither her tears nor her 
voice. The next day Lose Ann came in 
good spirits, because Itaymond, in his mid¬ 
week letter, had been very cheerful, and, as 
is common with consumptives, Avas sure he 
was mending. Mrs. Tilley could not give 
the girl more than a glance when she entered, 
and returned her greeting by a nod. She 
was near breaking out into a stoi’in of tears, 
hut by an agonising effort commanded 
herself. A great rush of pity filled her 
heart, and, putting her arm round Kose 
Aim’s waist, she led her into the garden. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ it be vor the best, it 
be Amr the best—the Lord luiA’e let I zee it 
be vor the best. You mustn’ vret, my 
dear : but he bain’t gwain to get better, do 
’ee zee. You -must ze^' it be vor the best, 
like I—like I do. The Lord’s Avill be 
done ! ” 

Hose Ann looked into her face with terri¬ 
fied eyes, and the mother took the girl in 
her arms and held her to her breast and 
murmured Avords of consolation. Thank 
God ! many a Avoman’s heart is saved from 
breaking because she has others to comfort 
and sustain, and in pouring balm finds an 
anodyne for her own gaping Avound. It is 
divinest pity, the more laA'ishly poured forth 
the richer tlie giver. 

. . . He Avill have—to be told, my 

dear. AVill you tell en ? ” 

“ 1 can’t : 1 don’t know,” sobbed Kose 
Ann. “ I don’t think I can.” 

“ It be a hard thing to do,” said Mrs. 
Tilley: “but I Avill let you do it becos T 
love ’ee, my dear, if he* had—had liA’ed you 
would have been his wife, and it be a Avife’s 
])la(.*e to be closest to her husband in joy and 
in trouble, my dear.” 

You—lie his uiothei*.” 

“And yours, too, I hojie, my dear. J>ut 
you be his wife avore the Lord.” 


i\Irs. Tilley Avouid not allow Kosie to see him 
till she had Avashed her swollen eyes and had 
command of her tears. “ Youdl be calm, vor 
his sake, my dear,” said Mi*s. Tilley, Avho felt 
just then beyond tears or cries, and every¬ 
thing but a dead hopelessness ; “ and you’ll 
show en that it be the Lord’s doens. He’ll 
])’raps gi’ieve 'cos he haven’t lived to Avrite a 
Imll book ov potry like they other Avriters ; 
but you med tell him that p’raps the Lord be 
taken him to Avrite verses in heaven. It 
med be ”—and as the thought struck her 
the Avitliered, salloAV face lighted up for a 
moment, and AA'as as the face of one Avho 
from the mountain to]A has caught a glimpse 
of the Land of Kromise—“ it med be the 
Lord Avants en there to make verses vor the 
angels to zing ; and iv it be zo I Avon’t 
grudge him to the Lord vor an instant. 
P’raps Avhen I do come vor to go, they’ll 
come zingen a hymn he Inwe made.” And 
then her lips cpiivered and her eyes filled ; 
but Avhen she saAV Jlose Ann Avas Aveeping 
she dried her tears on the instant and 
begged the girl to cease. “ It Avill upzet en 
zo iv he do zee Ave be taken it hard.” 


It seemed to Kose as though some malign 
influence AA'ere compelling him to speak so 
that every Avord might inflict Avell-nigh in¬ 
tolerable anguish upon her. fie dAvelt Avith 
fondness on eA^ery incident in their intimacy, 
and passed on to speak of their future, Avhich 
was to be one long dream of happiness. 

“You’ll be Mrs. Tilley then, my dear, and 
somebody of importance, look see. We are 
goen to have tAvo boys and a maid, aren’t 
us ? Only the buys shall be stronger than 
me, look see, my love. Plenty of milk and 
fresh air and playen games be the things for 
maken boys strong. And the maid—Avhat 
be the matter, my darlen ? ” 

Kayniond had broken off in alarm. Kose 
Ann’s face Avas death-like Avith suppressed 
agony. 

8he could contain herself no longer. “Oh, 
my dear darlen,” she cried wildly, “ my pore 
love, it do break my heart to hear ’ee.” 

“Why, Avhat-?” and then in a hash 

came knoAvledge, and he lay back gasping. 
. . . . “ Kain’t—bain’t I goen to get better, 
Kosie, dear ? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ Oh h h!” he said sloAvly, and then 
she hung Ik'i* arms about him and lliey AA'ept 
together foi' a long time. 

Kayniond Avas the lii*st to speak. “ Pore 
old Kosie,” he said softly, “ pore old mother. 



214 


77/A’ WINDSOR. MAGAZINE. 



Tlie mother took tlie girl in lier arms and held her to her breast.” 


pore old fiithei’! . . . jMotlier said iiotlien 
to I.” 

“ Slie coitldn’, my daiieii. 81ie be-” 

‘‘ It do seem strang'e, don’t it ? ” lie said 
again musingly. “Pore little darlen Posie!” 
• “ I can never live without ’ee,” she 

sobbed. 


“ Xow, don’t take on, my darlen, don’t. 
. . . I did think I slionld live to Avi'ite a lot 
of potry. . . . Bnt it don’t mattei* ; ])’r’aps 
1 should never be sti’ong. . . . Ask mother 
to come ii]).” 

The two women cried in eacli othei^’s arms 
for some minutes before they entered tlie 




THE POETS LOVE, 


sick-cliaiiiber. The boy looked up in liis 
mother’s face with a brave smile, and Mrs. 
Tilley flnng herself with an agonised cry on 
her knees beside him. 

“ Pore old mother ! ” he said, gently 
patting her. “ Now, don’t take on so ; it 
hurts I to see it, and I want to say some- 
then.” 

With an effort that almost killed her 
i\Irs. Tilley restrained her tears and looked 
upon her son. 

‘‘ Look see, mother,” he said, “ pore Rosie 
have got no father or mother, and soon yon 
will have no boy. I wish yoh’d take her for 
your own.” 

‘‘ She be my own now. Zee, my bwoy, 
tliease be my daughter,” and going up to 
Rose Ann she took her in her arms and 
kissed her. 

For the next fortnight Raymond got 
steadily weaker, and Rose Ann got leave of 
absence that she might always be with him. 
It was her supieme privilege to sit by his 
side with pen and paper, ancl write down the 
verses he persisted in composing. He lay 
sometimes for an hour thiidving out a single 
line, and would wearily complain tliat his 
mind was lazy. He began many different 
poems—“ To a Robin,” “ Description of Onr 
Village,” “Snow,” and others—but they 
were never completed. There was one poem, 
however, at which he worked every day, and 
his joy Avas great when at last, a week before 
he died, it was finished. It was his “swan¬ 
song,” and the first two verses follow— 

0 mother, dear, grieve not for me, 

P)ecause in the grave I soon must he ; 
l^et not your tears be seen any more. 

I’m going to a happier shore. 

() darling Rosie, do not weep, 

For in the grave 1 soon must sleep ; 

A happy life together we ])laimed. 

Rut Rm going to the better Land. 


One day, after he had been lying silent for 
iicaiiy two hours, he called Rose Ann to him. 
“I’ve been thinken, my darlen,” he said, 

“ in a year or so yon must find a nice feller 
and marry him.” 

“No, no, no,” cried Rose Ann. “I shall 
never marry nobody now ; I conkin’. Don’t 
talk about it, my love ; it hurts I.” 

“But yon must, my dear. I’ve been 
thinken it over. You’d neA^er choose a man 
as Avasn’t nice, but Avhen a nice one AA'ants 
yon, yon must marry him. When I can look 
down and see yon happy with somebody, it 
Avill please 1 inoie than anythen.” 

Mrs. Tilley came into the room, and 
Raymond tippcaled to her. “ Mother, Rosie 
do say she*ll never marry noAv, but she must • 
if a very nice young mtiii do AA’ant her to. 
You’ll persmide her to it, mother, for I Avish 
it. It Avon’t be slighten I—it’d be selfish of 
I to Avish anythen else. She’ll never forget 
me, I know.” 

“I conldn’ marry anyliody noAV,” ci’ied 
Rosie in great agitation. 

“ You’ll promise, mother ? ” persisted 
Raymond. “ She be going to live Avith yon 
till then, l)nt you’ll do all yon can to find a 
nice, good young man for she ? ” 

“I promise, my bAVoy,” said Mrs. Tilley. 

“ She be my daughter and zoon Avill be my 
son’s Avidow, and I shall treat she like a 
daughter.” 


Raymond died three days later, on a 
glorious afternoon. Rosie sat by his side, 
holding his hand. She thought he Avas 
asleep, but Mrs. Tilley coming in gave a 
strangled cry and kissed the dead lips. 
Mother and daughter Avept together for a 
space, and then they knelt beside the bed 
and Rosie softly repeated the dead poet’s 
SAvan-song. 






©rC>ei-eCi to tbc jfront. 

I>v ?)KKrii-: Boksk, 














1 



15LIN1) GIRLS KNITTI^'(; AM) lASTEA’ING TO A RLIM) READER. 


THE EDUCATION 

OF THE BLIND. 


By Philip Gibbs. 

Illustrated from Photographs hg J. A. FowelL 



T here are comparatively few people 
wlio have any definite knoAvledge of 
the condition and capabilities of the 
blind. The average person is apt to regard 
them simply as 
beings to be 
pitied, shut off 
from all the 
joys of life, 
utterly incap¬ 
able of doing 
anything for 
themselves or 
anybody else. 

Even people 
^v i t h large 
liearts, always 
ready to sym¬ 
pathise with the 
sorroAvsof their 
fellow beings, 
are apt to think 
of the blind as 
only Avorthy 
objects of their 
charity, with¬ 
out realising 
that they may 
be educated to 
become useful 
members of 


society. Fortunately, in spite of the general 
ignorance and indifference on this mattei*, 
there have been, and still are, a select fcAV of 
ardent and unselfish spirits Avho have re¬ 
cognised that persons Avithout sight, even 
from birth, may be given the privileges of 
higher education, and liy careful training 

may be taught 
many profes¬ 
sions and trades 
by AY Inch they 
can support 
themselves and 
1) e enrolled 
among the 
Avorld’s woikers. 

A visit to 
such an in¬ 
stitution as the 
school at SAviss 
Cottage, main¬ 
tained by the 
London Society 
for Teaching 
the Blind to 
Read, Avculd 
do much to 
dispel the 
hazy ideas 
that a r e 
extant witli 


BLIND BOYS TAUGHT BY MEANS OF CLAY MODELS. 

217 






218 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


regard to the helplessness of the hlind. The 
first thing wliieli astonishes a visitor, who has 
come with a heart fall of pity, is the general 
happiness and even joyous air which seems 
to pervade the jfiace. On a Saturday after¬ 
noon, for instance, when the students have 
free time, the grounds are fnll of merry girls 
skipping or rmining about, so that it is almost 
impossible for a siglited stranger to realise 
that they are blind. On the afternoon when 
the Avriter visited this school the girls were 
sitting in the grounds in horse-shoe form. 


HOPE-MAKING. 

knitting, scAving, playing chess or draughts, 
Avhile their mistress. Miss Hay, .was diverting 
them Avith sprightly gossip. A general buzz 
of chatter AA^as maintained, interrupted now 
and again by a merry peal of laughter from 
the girls. On no face Avas there a sign of 
nnnsnal sadness. 

Ill the boys’ playgronnd the same cheerful 
air prevailed. A game of cricket Avas in 
progress among three or four younger boys, 
and they seemed to enjoy it as heartily as 
any English schoolboy. Truly a strange 
sight! Hoav did these sightless youngsters 


know Avhen and Avliere to hit or tliroAv tlie 
ball ? 

It is difiicnlt for a sighted stranger to 
refrain from exclamations of astonishment 
at many of tlie things be sees done by the 
inmates of this institution, but there is a 
tboughtfnl notice in tlie hall and other 
places which reipiests visitors not to speak of 
tlie pupils’ blindness in their hearing. Un¬ 
fortunately people do not always obserA^e 
this rule. Miss Hay, the head mistress of 
the school, tells the story of a lady Avho 
stood ill front of one of the blind 
girls, and, after gazing at her for 
a moment Avith mingled compas¬ 
sion and disgust, turned away 
Avith a shudder, and said, in a 
loud voice, “ Poor thing I what a 
horrible sight! ” 

Still less considerate than this 
Avas the remark of another lady 
Avho evidently considered herself 
a philosopher of the Stoic school. 
She met the Sunday procession 
of blind boys on their Avay to 
church, and Avitli considerable 
emotion exclaimed to her hus¬ 
band, “ Good Heavens, my love ! 
Better shoot them at onre ! ” The 
boys heard this remark and, 
doubtless to the lady’s surpilse, 
burst into peals of laughter. 

Not more sensible are some of 
the (piestions asked by charitable 
visitors. “ Hoav do the blind 
eat ? ” “ Can they find their 

Avay to their mouths?” “Do 
the blind Avash themselves ? ”— 
these are some of the (pieries 
Avhich may be heard on visiting 
days. 

Some questions certainly frame 
themselves in the mind of any 
intelligent, visitor to this school 
Avhen he finds that the students 
possess a good elementary educa¬ 
tion, and that many of them read and enjoy 
such difficult literature as that of Carlyle 
or Thackeray, and can Avrite intelligently on 
any ordinary subject of composition. IIoav 
is it, one may ask, that a child blind from 
birth or bajbyhood can obtain any truthful 
idea of the Avorld around it, of complicated 
forms and things which it can never see, nor 
smell, nor eA'en touch, as castles, bridges, 
hills, o]‘ trains.? How is it that Avithout 
ever having seen a house, a tree, a horse, 
or one of their fclloAV beings, they can yet 
realise and enjoy the humours of a novel by 














THE EDUCATION OF THE BLIND. 




tJIKLS CANING CHAIRS. 

Cliai’lcs J)ickeiis, or talk intelligently upon 
any ordinary subject ? 

Even teachers of tlie blind cannot answer 
these questions fully. They can only tell 
you that their pupils learn to build up ideas 
by a comparative system through the medium 
oftoucli. But they 
will tell you also 
that this does not 
account for all 
their ideas, and 
that they seem to 
possess a percep¬ 
tion beyond that 
obtained through 
sensation. 

Of course, a col¬ 
lection of models 
is one of the best 
means of giving 
the blind accurate 
ideas of the world 
around them. A 
lump of soft clay in 
the hands of a 
capable teacher can 
easily build up 
miniature hills and 
valleys, castles with 
battlements, and 
other objects of 
Nature or man’s 
handicraft, and the 


imagination of the 
])upils can magnify 
these to the re¬ 
quired size. 

At the Blind 
School at Swiss 
Cottage the boys 
themselves are 
taught clay-model¬ 
ling under the able 
guidance of the 
head master, Mr. 
(’orbett Dyer. It 
is really remarkable 
to see the ingenious 
and intricate models 
which the boys 
build up. One of 
their latest achieve¬ 
ments is a model 
which they call 
Portsmouth Har¬ 
bour. It is built 
in a large zinc tray 
half filled with 
water and is a 
capital imitation of a harbour with ports and 
towers. ^ One of the boys, wliose father is a 
boat-builder, has constructed some excellent 
clay boats, which float about the ‘‘ liarbour ” 
to the delight of the sightless modellers. 
It was unusually pretty and interesting to 


BASKET-MAKING. 


219 
















220 


THE WTNDSOU MAOAZIXE. 




watch one of these hoys modelling a hand 
from a plaster copy. He was stroking the 
cast Avith tlie tips of his fingers, lightly 
feeling tlie hnmps and indentations, and the 
general contoni*, so that his mind should haye 
an exact idea of the subject. Then he deftly 
reproduced his idea in clay, and in all respects 
it was an admirable and exact copy of the 
plaster hand. 

Of course, one of the earliest steps in the 
education of the blind is to teach them to 
read. When once tliey can do this they 
possess the key to all tlie knowledge Avhicli 
the human mind can achieve without the aid 
of sight. Many ingenious systems have been 
invented to convey printed characters to f-he 
minds of sightless people. The most popular 
at the present day is the Hraille system, Avhich 
is the one in use at Swiss Cottage Blind 
School. Louis Braille, the inventor of the 
system, Avas born at Coupvray, near Paris, 
in 1809. He lost his sight at the age of 
three, and Avhen he Avas nineteen he entered 
the Institution Nationale des Jeunes ilveugles 
at Paris. Here he distinguished himself as 
a pupil and afterAvards became a professor. 
He learnt to read every system of blind 
characters then invented, but he recognised 
that all of them Avere faulty. He laboured 
to invent a simpler system Avhicli the blind 
could not only read easily, but might also 
Avrite in relief. This he at last accomplished 
by the beautiful and ingenious system Avhich 
bears his name. By various combinations of 


ARTICLES MADE BY BLIND CIKLS. 


BASKETS MADE BY THE BLIND. 

six dots raised upon a plain surface, all the 
letters of the alphabet and many combina¬ 
tions and contractions are represented, and 
an ordinarily intelligent pupil finds no diffi¬ 
culty in learning to read and Avrite by this 
system. 

At the Blind School at Swiss Cottage the 
boys learn to print their oaaui books. It is 
exceedingly interesting to AA^atch one of these 
blind printers. He has a thin sheet of brass, 
folded in two, AAdiich is fixed into a wooden 
frame. On this is placed a movable metal 
guide Avith oblong 
holes large enough 
to alloAV six dots or 
dents to be punched 
in the vacant 
spaces. On each of 
these spaces above 
the m e t a 1 the 
printer punches, by 
means of a blunt 
aAvl and a hammer, 
the dots Avhich 
correspond to the 
letter required. 
When the metal 
sheet is coA’ered 
Avith these dots it 
is taken from the 
frame and placed 
in the printing 
press. A sheet of 
cartridge paper is 
placed over the em¬ 
bossed metal in the 
same Avav as it would 




THE EDUCATION OF THE BLIND. 


221 


cover a stereo-plate 
on an ordinary 
printing inacliine. 

The pressure of the 
paper against the 
embossed metal 
causes it to be 
covered with a cor¬ 
responding impres¬ 
sion of dots. By 
means of these dots 
or “ bumps ” the 
Idiiid student is 
provided with a 
perfect substitute 
for the letters of 
the 0 r din a r y 
sighted reader. 

The writing is done 
in the same way, ex¬ 
cept til at the holes 
are punched in the 
paper without tlie 
backing of metal, 
and of course no 
printing press is 
required. Among the books printed by 
the blind scholars at this particular school 


TUNING A PIANO. 

are tlie Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress, and a 
History of England. 




nuiNp Organist and blind pianisT; 
















THE WINDSOR NAG AZINH 


222 




At this institution is pro¬ 
duced one of the most ex- 
traordinaiy magazines in the 
world. It is edited, written, 
and printed by blind boys 
and girls. Some of the 
contributions are not only 
remarkable, considering the 
difficulties under which their 
authors labour, but are excel¬ 
lent in themselves. AYe do 
not think the readers of the 
AYixdsor will begrudge the 
space occupied by the follow¬ 
ing extract from this scliool 
magazine when they reflect 
that the author, Miss Jessie Collins, is a 
young girl who has been blind from her 
early childhood—■ 

MOUNTAINS SCENERY. 

Europe has many beautiful mountain ran<>’es, but perhaps the two most magnifi¬ 
cent are the lyrenees and the Alps. 'J he Pyrenees are situated between Fnincc 

scenery. Tlieir lofty peaks are covered with.a cold mantle of snow, while in 
f,reen contrast their sides are clothed with large fore.^ts of pine, oak, chestnut and beech. But, heautiful as these 
mountains are, they seem a mere nothing beside the solemn gr.andeiir of the Alps. Great travellers have bv art and 
poetical language, tried to awaken in us the feelings of ecstasy and awe which’ they Ihemsefves experieLc^d" 
gaziniij on their majestic heights. 

Seen by daylight the aspect of the Alps is stern and cold, with nothing to break 
the drecyy monotony of broyl sheets of ice and snow. Ear up the mountains the 
little Alpine primrose lives its solitary life, with no one to behold its simple beauty 
but Its Creator. ‘ ^ 

Let us turn from this picture of solitude and view the Alps in the early morning. 
It IS a glorious sight to see peak after peak light up with the soft colours of the 
rising sun, while tlie valleys below are wrapped in shadows. Gradually the splendour 
brightens, turning the glaciers into crowns of sparkling diamonds w'orthy to adorn 
the hoary heads of these mighty kings of solitude. 

AA e cannot wonder that luirope rejoices in the pride and 
magnificence of the Alps, and that the great Aurora should 
enthrone herself on their mighty summits and clotlre them in her 
brightest glory. 


liOY I’UNCIlING BRAILLE 
STENCIL. 


T-A.KING IMim.KS.SIONS FROM BRAILLE STJfLNCIL, 


Can anyone read tliis pretty piece of 
imagillati^’e writing Avitliont marvelling that 
a sightless person can gain such, vivid ideas 
of the beauties of Nature, never having seen 
them except by the eyes of fancy ? 

Many of the pupils at tliis school are 
tanglit mnsic, and they liave achieved an 
excellent standard of proficiency. AA^hen the 
writer of this article visited the school, two 
young musicians were performing in the 
large concert-room, wliich is provided with a 
magnificent organ and a ‘‘ Broadwood ” which 
cost three hundred guineas. A boy was 
seated at the organ, making the noble instru¬ 
ment throli with a flood of solemn and 
glorious niusic. Then a young girl filled the 
room Avith a-thousand sweet liarmonies from 
the piano. As her fingers swept lightly over 
the keys a briglit beam of sunshine fell 
upon her uplifted face and fair hair, and 
Avithout sentiment it may be said that a 
hush of aAve came upon the hearers, as 
they watched the look of joy upon the 









THE EDUCATION OF THE BLIND. 


228 


delicate features of the blind girl and 
listened to the cascade of silvery notes struck 
by her fingers. 

Many of the students are taught piano¬ 
tuning, and this knowledge enables them to 
earn their living in after-iife when they have 
to leave the friendly shelter of this benevolent 
institution. 

This particular school at Swiss Cottage is 
more a general educational institution than 
one for teaching definite trades to the 
blind. In spite of this, however, the girls 
are tanght sewing, knitting and crochet-work, 
rope-making and chair-caning. Some of 
their specimens of needlework are almost 
miracles of workmanship, considering their 
authors. The most intricate and beautiful 
patterns are produced by these afflicted girls 
with as much perfection as by the most 
competent of sighted needlewomen. 


The trade specially taken up by the men 
is basket-making, and some of them are 
employed as paid craftsmen in this capacity 
when they are too old to remain in the school 
as pnpils. From the accompanying photo¬ 
graphs it will be seen that want of sight 
does not prevent them from making "the 
most elaborate and complicated articles of 
basket work. 

Many other things are to be seen at this 
admirable institution, all of which go to prove 
that tlie blind may be trained to become most 
useful members of society, and that they can 
appreciate the privileges of higher education, 
and can learn trades and professions by 
which they may earn their livings creditably 
and happily. All honour to the men and 
women who have founded and who maintain 
such noble institutions as the Blind School 
at Swiss Cottage. 



“ WHEN THE FLOWING TIDE COMES IN.” 

P)'om a photograph by the \Voodbiu-y Permanent Photographic Co. 






SagsDreanis. 

I»v I», Bell 





W E were a party of four young fellows 
in the Quinta Bella-Vista, a lonely, 
raiubliiig country-house situated 
in the wildest pai’Ud’ l^rtugal—tlie Serra da 
Estrella. We were office companions in the 
city of Oporto; our names, John Lake— 
that is myself—Mauidce Belford, and Charles 
Harden—l)oth my countrymen—and a youiig 
Ih^rtuguese who had been educated in 
England, Augusto Cardoso. 

Had Belford, Harden, and myself been 
able to do so, we should probably have ex¬ 
cluded Cardoso from our ('[uartette, and given 
the preference to a compatriot ; but during 
the first fortnight of our stay at the Quinta 
no incident occurred to cast any shadow on 
the general light-heartedness of our holiday- 
party. Cardoso was as companionable as 
one could desire ; he appeared to be as keen 
a sportsman as any of us, and as eager as 
any native-born Englishman to go out and 
“ kill something.” 

As for Charlie Harden, our latest junior ” 
from England, he did not pretend to any 
love for sport, and rarely shouldered a gun. 
He was of a scientific bent of mind, an 
ardent photographer, and he had brought 
with him from Oporto his camera, eager to 
secure views of the picturescpie country 
about us, and snapshots of the equally pic¬ 
turesque people who inhabited it. We—that 
is, Cardoso, Belford, and myself—returned to 
the Quinta, after a long Clay’s sport, with 
our spoils of the chase, and Charlie with 


the plates he had exposed, and which he 
developed in the dark-room he had extem¬ 
porised in a corner of the old building. 

It was an ideal life for four high-spirited, 
healthy young fellows ; but at the end of a 
fortnight “the little rift within the lute” 
began to appear. Cardoso, who had been 
our constant companion hitherto in our 
daily expeditions, commenced to find excuses 
for remaining at home. 

If these excuses had been occasional I 
should not have attaclied any significance to 
them, but as they had become of nearly daily 
occurrence I could not avoid casually com- 
mentiug on them one morning to Belford 
and Haixlen as the three of us set out, 
leaving Cardoso, as usual, “ to write im¬ 
portant letters,” as he had said. 

“ lYrite letters ? Bot ! Why, where are 
yonr eyes. Jack ? ” replied ^lanrice, with a 
Sarcastic laugh. “ Can’t you see that the 
ass is making eyes at old Maria’s niece, 
Rosita ? He deserves a horsewhipping ! ” 

“ Booh !—Rosita is going to marry Bento 
Dedo shortly,” I objected ; “ Maria Barbara 
told me so herself.” 

“As if that matters—Rosita is as arrant 
a little flirt as ever breathed. I suppose she 
feels it to be (juite a feather in her cap to 
liave brought one of ns ‘senhors’ to her 
pretty little feet.” 

“ Look here,” said I, stopping abru|)tly 
and turning on my companions with a serious 
face, “this is no joking matter, IVhat I 








226 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


hear now is a revelation to me. Take it 
from me, l)oth of yon, as one wlio lias had 
some experience of the conntry and the 
people, that the less you have to do with 
Rosita the better for you. Bento Dedo 
looks to me to be the last man in the world 
to tolerate any interference with his rights. 
And, now I come to think of it, tlie beggar 
has seemed lately to be more morose than 
usual. No wonder—I’ll speak to Cardoso.” 

‘‘ The amorous brute ! 

If he spoils our holiday 


but wiry, and with a low-browed, unpre¬ 
possessing face. Although we had been in 
constant communication with him since our 
arrival, we had never succeeded in breaking 
down the suspicious reserve in Ids peasant 
mind for the town-lired strangers. His real 
name was Beiito da Costa, but an accident 
that had deprived him of the thumli of his 
riglit hand had gained him, as is usual 
among his countrymen, a sobriipiet descrip¬ 
tive of liis misfortune: that of Bento 
Dedo. 



As I had determined in the morning, we 
returned earlier tlian usual to the Quinta 
after our sport, and I was enabled to ^'erify 
what Maurice had told me. 

A broad stone teiTace ran along the side 
of the house where our bedrooms were 
situated. As I entered mine to put away 
my gun I caught side of Cardoso with his 
back turned to me. He was leaning well 
over the baluster, and I could tell from the 
movements of his shoulders that he was 
talking earnestly to someone in tlie garden 
below liim. 

TTie French window was partially 
open. I stepped cpiietly through 
it and in a moment was by his side. 
He started up as soon as he 
saw nic and turned scar¬ 
let. I looked over the 
baluster, and there, as I 
had already guessed, was 
Rosita. She gave a little 
cry as she cauglit sight 
of me. She Avas swing¬ 
ing a slender gold chain 
in her fingers, and for a 
moment she stared np at 
me fixedly AA’ith a look of 
terror in her l)ig black 
ejTS, and her delicately 
tinted olive cheek paling 
and flushing as rapidly 
as her breathing. Slie 
looked like a pretty, 
frightened bird as she 
stood there. Then she 
suddenly recoA'ered her¬ 
self, and without a word of reply to my 
“ Boa tank ” her dainty figure flitted round 
the terrace corner and disappeared. 

‘M\hat a deuce of a start you gave me. 
Bake ! ” said Cardoso, smiling uneasily. 
‘Hndeed? Better that I should do so 

than Bento-” 

‘‘ Bento be hanged I ” 

“ Agreed ; Imt they don’t hang in this 
country for AA’liat Bento might do, or attempt 


with his foolery he deserves 
a good hiding—and, by JoA^e! 
he’ll get it, too,” said Maurice 
angrily. 

The Maria Barbara mentioned in our con¬ 
versation Avas the A\'ife of the vamro, or 
steAvard, of the Quinta da Bella-Yista, and 
lived Avith her husband and niece in a 
small cottage attached to the main building. 
It AA^as her duty to cook for us and to attend to 
our rooms. This she did, Avith the assistance 
of Bento Dedo. 

Bento Avas a young felloAv of about fiAx- 
aud-twenty years of age, undersized, slim. 


‘‘ I looked over the baluster." 





BY FLASHLIGHT. 


to do, if he caught you philandering with 
Rosita : remember tliat, please.” 

Cardoso snapped his fingers and his eyes 
flashed. 

‘‘ Bento ! I don't care that for Bento ! ” 
said he contemptuously. “ Look here, Mr. 
John Lake,” he continued defiantly, ‘‘ I’m 
going to marry Rosita in spite of him, and 
you, and anybody else ; now you know it.” 

“Marry Rosita? Good Heavens! Has 
it come to that ? MJiy, you must have 
taken leave of your senses, Cardoso ! ” 

“ Thanks—that’s a matter of opinion, and 
I didn’t ask for yours 1 Rosita is fit to lie 
a queen. She was never meant for a stupid 
oaf like Bento ; and he shan’t have her as 
long as I live 1 ” 

This was too much. I stamped my feet 
angrily on the stones, and felt my lingers 
itching to take liiin by the shoulders and 
shake liiin soundly. 

“ Confound it! ” I exclaimed ; “ I might 
liave guessed what would happen ! You 
Portuguese can’t see a pretty face but you 
lose your balance directly. Now I tell you 
frankly, Cardoso, that Belford, Harden, and 
myself have no intention of remaining here 
to see you make an ass of yourself—or 
worse ! Either you or we must get out 
of this ! ” 

“ Then I vote it’s Cardoso who clears out ! 
Hang it all, I don’t see why we three should 
have our fun spoilt for his sake ! If he 
doesn’t know what ordinary decent behaviour 
is, we are not to blame, and shouldn’t suffer I ” 

It was Maurice Belford who had spoken. 
He had overheard the controversy from his 
room, and he was now standing beliind me, 
in his sliirt-sleeves, and wiping his hands on 
his towel. 

Cardoso turned livid with fury. 

“ Do you dare to criticise my conduct ? ” 
he shouted to Belford. “ I’ll give you a 
lesson 1 ” and he advanced threateningly. 

I promptly interposed between the pair. 

“ Steady,” said I warn i ugly, as I pushed 
them both apai’t. “ Don’t attempt anything 
silly, either of you ; it Avon’t settle anything 
satisfactorily to giv^e or receive a black eye. 
There’s the dinner-bell. Go and put on 
your coat, Maurice,” and I gave Belford a 
shove in the direction of his room. 

Storm was in tlie air literally and figni'a- 
tively that day. As I closed my Avinduw, 
after leaving the terrace, I caught a glimpse 
of heavy masses of dark cloud, lit up 
momentarily by the flickering lightning, 
gathering over the brow of the distant 
Berra ; and as I entered the dining-room 


•227 

a casual glance at Maria Barbara, as she 
stood red-eyed and pale-faced near my chair, 
convinced me that there had been “ ructions ” 
in the caseiro's establishment. The atmo¬ 
sphere Avas too strained for me to venture 
upon an inquiry. I contented myself Avith a 
mental observation that undoubtedly the 
little sorceress Rosita Avas responsible for our 
attendant’s Avoebegone appearance, among 
other things. 

My surmise proved to be quite correct. 
We had scarcely finished our beaii soup, 
Avhich Ave had eaten in grim silence, Avhen 
the dining-room door Avas opened and Bento 
entered. He marched rapidly up to the 
table, and Avith a sudden SAveep of his 
maimed hand he dashed a glittering some¬ 
thing into the centre of it. It AA'as a slender 
gold chain, Avith a locket, in the shape of 
a heart, attached to it. Evidently it Avas the 
same chain I had seen Rosita SAvinging in 
her fingers a short time previously. 

The man AA'as pale as a coi'pse Avith sup¬ 
pressed passion. 

“ Rosita sends this back ”—he pointed to 
the chain—“ to the senhor avIio gave it to 
her ; and the senhors Avill be good enough 
to understand ”—here he looked a loAvering 
challenge round the table—“that she doesn’t 
accept such things from anyone but me.” 

Bento turned on his heel to leave the room 
after delivering himself of this pithy oration. 
This Avas too much for my equanimity. I 
sprang to my feet, very nearly upsetting the 
trembling Maria Barbara as I did so, and 
catching the felloAV l)y the shoulders before 
he could reach the door I forced him back 
to the table. 

“ If you dare to enter this room in that 
manner again I’ll kick you out of it,” said I 
to him. “ Here is the gentleman avIio gave 
Rosita the chain.” I pointed to Cardoso. 
“ Noav apologise to me and my friends, or I’ll 
break every bone in your carcass, you 
im])udent scoundrel.” 

“ Well, this is a pretty bear-garden,” 
chimed in INfaurice, as he caught the drift of 
the commotion. “ Hang it all—Bento is in 
his rights. Why the dickens don’t you leave 
the felloAv and his Rosita in peace, Cardoso ? 
You ought to be ashamed of yourself; you 
dis(;redit us all.” 

Cardoso turned on him like a tiger. 

“ Shut up, you British l)lockhead ! ” he 
foamed out, and Avithout a Avord of Avarning 
he hurled the tumbler he Avas holding full at 
Belford’s head. 

The lieaAy glass shiA'ered into a thousand 
fragments oji the opposite aaMI, and the next 


228 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


moment Maurice and Cardoso wei*e closely 
clinched and exchanging fnrions blows, while 
Maria Barbara was making the large room 
echo Avith Aimriconlias and shrill shrieks 
of terror. It Avas a bear-garden indeed. 

I released Bento, and then, Avith Harden’s 
assistance, tore the two combatants forcibly 
apart. 

Do yon call yourselves gentlemen ? ” I 
gasped breathlessly, as I held on tightly to 
'Maurice. “ You are an edifying spectacle, 
the pair of you, and, to improA'e matters, 
you must let your servants hear you slang 
each other like a couple of fcuUstus ” (street 
ruffians of the Ioav quarters of the city). 
“ Be off ! ” I shouted to Bento, Avho had 
been an eager spectator of the scene, and had 
druidv in every word he could understand. 

Of course there Avas no more dinner for 
any of us that night. I got ]\Iaurice away, 
wilh some difficulty, into my bedroom, Avhere 
Ave Avere presently joined by Charlie, Avho 
told me that Cardoso had left the lious?, 
destination unknown. 

During my five years’ close companionshi]) 
Avith Belford I framed in my mind that half 
unconscious and entirely superficial estimate 
of his character that satisfies the majority of 
men in their friendships. Had 1 been asked 
off-hand for details of Maurice’s disposition 
T should have unhesitatingly described him 
as a good-tempered, easy-going felloAA^—the 
sort of man that Avouldn’t hurt a fly. I had 
never scratched the surface, for uoav he both 
puzzled and angered me Avith his dogged, 
concentrated determination to “take it out 
of that brute Cardoso, by hook or by crook,” 
as he expressed himself. 

He ap;.eared to be as reATUgeful as a 
Redskin. It Avas of no use talking to him 
or attempting to argue Avith him—he Avas 
just as receptive of Avhat I had to say as a 
stone image might be, and, after the first 
expression of his opinion upon the matter in 
liand, about as talkative. He simply sat 
quietly on the end of my bed, nursing his 
cheek, AAdiere a livid mark still slioAved the 
imprint of Cardoso’s fingers, and did not 
attempt to open his firmly compressed lips. 

Tliis AA*as a cheerful state of things. Charlie 
and I gave up our one-sided disputation in 
sheer despair of getting eA'en a “Yes” or 
“No” from Belford. AVe lit our pipes 
and then stared in gloomy silence at each 
other through the smoke, heartily Avishing—■ 
at least, I knoAv I did—that I had never seen 
the Quinta da Bella-Yista. 

Presently a diversion Avas created in this 
Quakers’ meeting by a tap at the door. 


It AA’as Maria Barbara to announce that 
Padi’e Alvaro had called to see us. 

Padre xHvaro Avas the priest of the little 
village of Yal-Moura, situated about a mile 
distant from the Quinta. Charlie had taken 
the old man’s portrait in all the glory of liis 
Axstinents, and had promised, through me, 
to shoAv and explain to his sitter the secrets 
of photography A\dienever the Padre should 
call at Bella-Yista. 

“ He’s your visitor, Charlie,” said I ; “ go 
doAvn and entertain him.” 

“ Oh, I can’t explain things to the old 
Johnnie ! ” Avas the irreverent reply, as he 
rose to his feet and pocketed his pipe. “ I 
counted upon you doing the shoAvmau’s 
business. You kuoAV I don’t understand a 
tenth part of what he says.” 

It AA^as true ; ])ut I Avas very loth to leave 
Maurice until I saw him safely disposed of 
for the night; and yet I did not Avish to 
offend the Padre, avIio Avas a Avorthy old 
soul. I Avould have left Charlie and gone 
doAvn alone, but then I kneAV as much about 
the mysteries of photography as the Padre 
himself, and tin's Avould be the last oppor¬ 
tunity of shoAving the camera to him. 
During the last half-hour’s silent self- 
communion I had determined that the A'ery 
next morning Avould find Maui’ice, Charlie, 
and myself on our Avay back to Oporto, free 
of Rosita, Bento, and Cardoso. 

“ It’s a confounded nuisance I ” said I, as 
I got on my feet. “ Don’t leave the room, 
Maurice. I don’t intend to be long. Here, 
take this and haA'e a smoke.” I thrust my 
tobacco-pouch into his hand. 

He did not reply, but sat staring at the 
lighted candle on the table before him as if 
he had not heard me. 

I felt that this sort of thing Avas decidedly 
unsatisfactory, but I did not like to shoAV it, 
so I followed Charlie doAvn to the big, empty 
drawing-room overlooking the entrance, 
Avhere tire portly old priest Avas awaiting us. 

The storm that had threatened us at 
dinuer-time, and that had been rumbling 
gradually oiiAvard since then in our directioii, 
Avas now nearly overhead. The frequent 
peals of thunder shook the old house from 
roof to basement, and the lightning-flashes 
lit up the great gaunt room, making the 
feeble illumination of the two candles appear 
quite spectral by the contrast. 

Charlie had brought doAvn his precious 
camera under his arm, and presently, Avith 
myself acting iis dragoman, Avas explaining 
to Padre Alvaro the action of the apparatus. 

The simple o]d soul Avas delighted^ and 


IIY FLAHlflJCniT. 


his wondering eyes beamed on ns alternately 
like twin, beneticent stars ; he consumed 
snuff in huge pinches under the stress of 
his excitement, and overwhelmed us with 
profuse thanks and a red bandana as large 
as a bath-towel that he flourished in his 
hand, preparatory to emulating with his nose 
the blast of an archangers trumpet.^ One 
thing—one little thing only, was wanting to 
complete his state of beatitude : could he be 
permitted to see one of those marvellous 
little pieces of glass exposed and developed ? 

I had to explain to him here, under 
Charlie’s direction, that up to that moment 
photography did not include in its pro¬ 
gramme exposure by candlelight. The simple 
old man’s face fell, as also did a pinch of 
snuff’ half-way to its destination. The Padre 
was evidently greatly disappointed. 

I felt quite sorry that we couldn’t gratify 
him, and then an idea suddenly occurred to 
me. I turned and fired it off at Charlie. 

“ I’ve heard that it’s possible to take 
lightning flashes—is that so ? If it is, try 
and bag one for the old chap ; but look 
sharp about it, because I want to get back 
to Maurice.” 

Charlie was doubtful of results ; he had 
never studied that branch of the science, but 
he would try what he could do. The camera 
was quickly rigged up ; a window opened on 
the pateo, and, as luck would have it, a 
vivid flash directly in front of the lens was 
recorded almost immediately. It was so 
bright that it nearly blinded the three of us 
for at least half a minute, and was followed 
by an awful, deafening crash of thunder— 
the peal of the evening. 

The Padre, Charlie, and myself now left 
for the dark-room Avibh the slide. As we 
passed along the corridor I could not resist 
peeping into my bedroom to see Maurice, 
and to"tell him that we had nearly disposed 
of our visitor. 

He Avas gone, and my tobacco-pouch Avas 
lying on the coverlet. 1 instantly ran back 
to the other tAvo rooms, and, striking a match 
in each of them, gave a searching glance 
around. No, he Avas in neither of them : 
conld he have left the house ? 

“ He has gone in search of Cardoso,” Avas 
the thought that next passed through my 
brain. “If those two madmen should meet! ” 

I ran doAvii the broad stone flight of steps 
and entered the pateo, Avith a strong pre¬ 
sentiment quickening my pulses that some 
evil thing had befallen. 

The storm Avas abating noAV, and a feAv 
stars Avere twinkling through the torn curtain 


221 ) 

of cloud, but it Avas still very dark. I 
walked cautiously onward oA’cr the uneven 
pavement toAvards the large open gatcAvay 
that gave access to the high road to Yal- 
Moura. 

I reached it, but as I Avas passing through 
it I nearly stumbled suddenly on my knees 
OA^er some yielding object lying straight 
across the entrance. Of course I Avas already 
Avound up to expect all sorts of dreadful 
things, but there Avas something in the 
nature of the obstacle I had encountered 
that sent my blood in a Avave back to my 
heart. Sick Avith apprehension, I stooped to 
examine it. Por a time I could make 
nothing of the dark, sack-like looking outline, 
but a flash of lightning from the tail of the 
receding storm suddenly revealed, Avith 
startling distinctness, the body of a man. 



Avith its aAvful face and staring eyes turned 
to the sky. 

For a moment, I suppose, though it 
seemed ages, I stood glued there Avith horror. 
Then a hoarse cry burst from my lips and 
seemed to give me back the poAver to use my 
limbs. I rushed back to the house and 
up through it to the dark-i*oom like one 
possessed. 

‘‘ Charlie, Charlie ! ” I panted out of my 
dry throat as I beat Avith both hands on the 
locked door, ‘‘ open, open at once ! ” 

“ Steady, old man—just half a tick ; Fax 
got a vsplendid flash, I fancy ; I’m just 
rinsing the ])late.” 

‘‘ Open, open ! ” I shrieked furiously. 

“ D-n the plate ! There’s someone dead 

or murdered at the pafeo gateAvay. Open !” 

There Avas a quick clink of glass, the door 




280 


THE Wixuson HagAEIKE, 


was flung wide tack, and I saw Cliarlie’s 
lioiTor-stricken face, in strong contrast to 
the mildly astonislied features of Padi*e 
Alvaro, who had not understood a word of 
what I had just said, fronting me in tlie 
dull glare of the red lamp. 

“Good God ! Jack,” gasped Charlie, “what 
is it you said ? Dead—murdered ! Is it—is 

it-He paused, with parted lips, 

unable or not daring to say moi'e. 

“ There is someone lying in the entrance- 
gate, to all appearance dead,” I replied, as I 
leaned agminst the doorway and wiped the 
])erspiration from mj face. I turned to 
Padre Alvaro and translated what I had iust 
told Charlie. 

“ Santa Maria ! ” ejaculated the Padre, as 
he threw up his hands. “Put you inust be 
mistaken, Sanhor Lake,” he continued. “ An 
accident, perhaps. The man may not be 
dead. Come, 7neifs sen hors ^ let us iro and 
see! ” ^ ^ 

In a few moments we were assembled 
rmmd the prostrate ligui’e. The storm had 
died away, and it was too dark to see 
distinctly. I drew a matchbox from my 
pocket and with a shaking hand struck a 
light. 

As the faint, flickering gleam fell upon the 
upturned, distorted features over which we 
were stooping, an exclamation of horror 
burst from each of us. The dead man 
was Cardoso ! 

“ Ay (U mvni —it is as you feared, Senhor 
Lake,” said the Padre, who was now on one 
knee by the l)ody. “ This is murder ; the 
knife that slew your friend is even now in 
his heart. Look ! ” 

Chailie and I followed with our eyes, as if 
fascinated, the direction of the ])ointing 
finger and fixed upon the haft of the fatal 
knife planted in Cardoso’s breast. Heavens ! 
there was no mistaking tlie identity of the 
weapon, even if we had not seen the roughly 
cut initials in the end of the bone handle. 
It was Maurice’s hunting-knife. 

Charlie and I stared at each other across 
the body and read in each other’s eyes the 
terrible words Ave could not speak. 

^ Padre Alvaro rose to his feet as the ex¬ 
piring match dropped from my ner\'eless 
lingers. 

“ This is dreadful—an inexplicable event, 
and a sad completion of your holidays, 7 iievs 
senhors. I Avill return at once to Yal-Moura 
and inform my friend, the Administrator, of 
what has happened.” The Padre drew 
Cardoso’s handkerchief over its owner’s dead 
face. “ The body must not be disturbed,” 


lie continued. “Call the caseiro to keep 
watch, and then, both of you, go back to the 
house ; I shall not be long. A/, A/, this is 
frisii>isimo—tristisslnwT he concluded, shak¬ 
ing his white head. 

The old priest, after muttering a pi’ayel¬ 
and crossing himself, started on his Avay to 
Yal-Moura. Chailie and I roused up old 
Pernardo, the camro, and in a few minutes 
Cardoso’s body Avas surrounded by the waA’ing 
lanterns of the excited labourers of the 
Quinta. A¥e then retired to the house to 
escape the flood of interrogation loosed upon 
us, and not daring to Avait to hear the secret 
that must soon be patent to eA^erybody. 

“ Oh, my God ! Jack, this is awful, 
terrible ! ” groaned Charlie, Avith white lips, 
as he drop])ed into a chair. “ Can it—can 
it really be true ? Did you see that—that 
knife ? ” He paused a moment and then 
whispered, “ YTiere is J\Iaurice “t ” 

“ I don’t know ; I wish I did,” I replied. 
“He is not in the house.” 

Charlie dropped his head on to his hands 
and attempted to say no more, and there Ave 
sat in the centre of the cavernous room Avith 
the sickly gleam of a solitary candle between 
us, Avaiting in a tense silence for the arrival 
of the Administrator and his oflicials, our 
nerves (piivering Avith every sound made by 
the group of AA^atchers. 

Our cruel state of suspense aaiis broken at 
last by the shuflling of feet in the corridor 
outside and the AA’hisper of orders. The 
door Avas throAvn Avide open and a group of 
bareheaded laboui-ers, bearing Cardoso’s 
corpse, covered by a sheet, sloAvly entered 
and deposited it upon the table. Close 
behind them folloAvcd the Administrator, his 
secretary, our friend Padre Ah'aro, the 
doctor, and tAvo policemen. 

Charlie and I kncAv the authorities slightly. 
They boAved silently to us as they took their 
places at the head of the table. The 
secretary drcAV out his inkhorn and official 
papers to take notes of the inquiry that Avas 
noAv to be opened. 

The interrogatory commenced Avith those 
persons connected Avith the house. First 
came old Pernardo, the caseiro^ Avho kncAv 
nothing ; then ]\Iaria Parbara, with draAvn, 
Avhite face and hysterical manner, aaTio le- 
capitulated, among other things, the story of 
the struggle Ijetween ]\Iaurice and Cardoso 
that afternoon, and the AAmds that had been 
exchanged by the combatants after they 
had been separated. 

I could see that this particular portion of 
Maria Parbara’s evidence had made a deep 










THE wrXDSOR MAGAZTXE. 


n2 

impression on the listeners, which must luive 
been further strengthened by Bento Dedo's 
confirmation of. it, given with the most 
cynical indifference. The circumstantial 
evidence against poor Maurice seemed to be 
overwhelming. 

The Administrator now addressed himself 
to Charles and me. 

“ To which of the senhors does this 
weapon belong ? ” he asked, as he pointed to 
the bloody hunting-knife lying upon the table. 
“ To neither of us, your Excellency,” 1 

replied ; “ it belongs to our companion-” 

“ Ah—where is he, ])lease ? ” 

At the very moment he concluded his 
question the door opened and Alaurice him¬ 
self appeared on the threshold. AY hat a 
wild*, unkempt object he looked ! His hat 
was gone ; his clothing was wet through, and 
gave ample evidence that its owner must 
have been plunging about in the mafio or 
undergrowth of the heath that stretched 
around us. 

Every eye was turned upon him as he 
stood in the doorway, startled and hesitating 
whether to advance or retreat. He looked 
around him inquiringly, and then as his 
glance caught the sinister outline of the 
burden on the table, his cheek blanched and 
he stammered forth— 

‘‘ AYliat—what is the meaning of this ? 
AYhat has happened ? Jack, Charlie ? ” 

“ Cardoso has been murdered,” I replied. 
Maurice stared at me with dilated eyes. 

‘‘ Murdered ? Good God! AYhen ? How ? ” 
he whispered at last. 

“ During the storm—Avith this,” I pointed 
to the knife. “ Oh, Maurice, Avhy did you 
leave the house ? ” I added bitterly. 

Maurice stood silently for a moment or 
two and looked around him in bewilderment. 
Then, as he read in the hostile glances that 
ci’ossed his OAvn the true meaning of the 
situation, he stepped boldly foiuvard Avith 
Hushed face and an indignant sparkle in 
his eyes. 

“And do they think that I am the 
assassin ? ” he demanded scornfully. “ Is 
that it ? ” 

The Administrator had listened to this 
colloquy in a language he did not under¬ 
stand, at first Avitli surprise, and noAv Avith 
restlessness. He broke in and addressed 
Alaurice authoritatively, as he signed to the 
fjuardm to close the door. 

“ Is this your knife, senhor ? ” 

“ Yes, it is ; but-” 

“ Bom ; we Avifl not go into the matter 
here,” interrupted the Administrator, with a 


wave of his hand. “ You must now accom¬ 
pany us to ATil-AIoura, senhor.” 

At my suggestion Maurice Avas given per¬ 
mission to change his clothing, but the tAvo 
(j liar das Avere ordered to accompany him to 
his room and to see that no one had any 
communication Avith him. 

T turned to Charlie as the trio filed from 
the room. 

“AYe must go down to Yal-Moura Avith 
Maurice,” said I. “ Come, let us go and get 
our hats.” 

xYs Ave hurried along the corridor Ave 
heard footsteps behind us. I turned to find 
Padre Alvaro at our heels. 

“ AYe are going to get our caps,” said I, 
“ and then Ave are going to Yal-Moura.” 

“ Ah, that is good,” ejaculated the Padre, 
helping himself to a pinch of snuff. “I, 
also, Avill get my stick, Avhich I left in the 
laboratory of this cavalheiro ”—he boAved to 
Charlie—“ when Ave Avere occupied Avith the 
])hotograph he Avas so good as to take for 
me. May I ? ” 

Charlie and I got our caps and then 
accompanied the Padre to the dark-room. 
The red lamp was still Imrning as Ave had 
hastily left it. 

The deep-coloured shade Avas Avithdrawn, 
and by the aid of the Avhite light the Padre 
speedily recovered his long, brass-shod Avalk- 
ing-staff. 

Charlie and I then turned to leave the 
room, but Padre Alvaro hesitated, and 1 saAV 
his spectacles turn curiously on the Avhite 
porcelain dish in Avhich Charlie had deposited 
the negative. 

I fancied I could read Avhat was passing in 
the Padre’s mind. 

“ You would like to see the photograph, 
Senhor Padre ? ” I asked. 

The Padre’s face brightened at the sug¬ 
gestion. 

“ Then shoAV it to him, Charlie,” I added ; 
“ but be quick ; Ave must go as soon as 
Alaurice is ready. I Avill stand at the door 
and listen.” 

Charlie picked up the plate from the 
Avatei*, after hastily rinsing it, and held it up 
to the bright light, Avhile the Padre adjusted 
his glasses and peered eagerly over his 
shoulder. 

I stood in die doorway listening for 
Alaurice’s de]3arture from his room, Avhich 1 
strove to catch above the laboured, stumbling 
description Charlie Avas giAung of the various 
objects delineated on the plate, and the 
Padre’s interjections of “ Marvellous ! ” that 
filled every pause. 



BY FLASHLIGHT. 


288 



This is the flasli of lightning, Senhor 
Padre ; these the outbuildiugs of the Quinta ; 
this the wall of the paUo; this the entrance- 

gate ; this—this - ah I-” and then Charlie 

suddenly ceased. 

At this inoinent I heard the sound of 
Maurice’s bedroom door opening in the 
corridor below, and the tramp of the 
f/uardas. 

I turned round hastily. ‘‘ Come on, 

Charlie,” I said ; “ Maurice is ready to go ! ” 

“ And this, senhor, is a black face---eh, 
surely ? and an arm, and a knife—black 
also,” broke in Padre 
A1 varo eagei’ly. ‘‘ Mev 

senhor^ I deceive 
myself, do I not ? But 
it is very like him, you 
see ? ” 

This unexpected 
taking-up of tlie de¬ 
scription of the plate by 
the Padre had startled 
me, a hundredfold more 
the bizarre words lie 
had uttered. I stepped 
forward. 

T was just in time. 

Charlie was standing 
holding the negative 
before the lamp, his 
face drawn and eyes 
starting, 
while l^idre 
Alvaro, in liis 
eager uncon¬ 
sciousness oi 
the signifi¬ 
cance of 

what he had ‘‘‘it's ('anloso^—and—and his iniirderor.'" 

uttered, was 

approaching his forefinger to the delicate 
film, which, liad he touched it, he would 
have undoubtedly destroyed. 

I seized the Padre’s arm and held it 
forcibly back, much to the old man’s aston¬ 
ishment. At the same moment with my 
othei’ arm I reached over Charlie’s shoulder 
and took it into my own hand. 

‘‘ AYhat is it ? ” T asked. 

“It’s Caixloso—and—and his murderer.” 

The discovery nearly knocked me silly for 
the moment. “ For Heaven’s sake take care 
of the plate, Jack ! ” 

I bent over the negative in strong agita¬ 
tion. Padre Alvaro and Charlie were both 
right. Near the liottom of the plate could 
be seen Cardoso’s face, in profile, and a 
portion of his body. At the moment of the 


I was labouring seemed to blur my 
vision. 

I looked round for a magnifying glass, but 
there was none. Charlie suggested: the lens 
from his camera, and, unscrewing it, handed 
it to me. One glance thi’ough it sufficed. 

I beckoned Padre Alvaro — I could not 
trust my voice—to appi’oacli and look 
througli the lens. There was some little 
difficulty, that would have been comical 
under other circumstances, in adjusting the 
distance of the plate from the lens, in order 
to suit the old man’s vision, but presently 
that was done. 


flash the unfortunate man had been about 
to enter the pateo, and had perceived the 
doom that menaced him and from which he 
could not escape. From behind the massy 
stone pillar that supported the right-hand 
wing of the iron entrance-gate, was project¬ 
ing an arm and hand grasping a knife, 
apparently about to strike. 

Undoubtedly that hand and arm belonged 
to Cardoso’s assassin. How could they be 
identified ? The negative was “ sharp ” and 
distinct enough, but small; and, as a matter 
of fact, the strong excitement under wliich 


R 



234 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


I watched liini keenly as lie looked, and 
almost iinmediately his face be«:an to work 
witli excitement. lie drew hack, and, i^laiu;- 
ing Avith a scared expression in his eyes at 
Charlie and myself, he whispered— 

“ Oh, men Deus^ senhors^ is this a picture 
of the assassination ? Is it—is it sorcery 
—or a. blessed miracle of the saints ? ” 

“ But tlie hand that holds the knife, 
Seiihor Padre ? Look again ; again, please,” 
I urged. 

Once more Padre x\lvaro approached his 
face cautiously to the lens. 

“ Surely,” said he, and the Avords dropped 
one by one from his li])S, like pebbles falling 
into a Avell, ‘‘sui'ely—ah— mens — seniors — 
it—is—a—hand—that -has—no—thumb.” 

“ Yes, the hand of Bento Dedo, Cardoso’s 
murderer ! ” 1 almost shouted, as my pent-up 
excitement broke loose. ‘‘ AVe must see the 
Administrator at once. Maurice is free.” 

For a moment or tAvo the Padi'e and 
Charlie looked at me in speechless astonish¬ 
ment. The former found his A-oice first. 

“ Then it is a blessed miracle of the 
saints,” said he, bowing his head reverently 
and crossing himself. The next moment he 
AA^as taking snuff Avith a forty-Padre poAver, 
embracing Charlie and myself in Portuguese 
fashion, and waving his bandana furiously. 

This Avas no suitable moment, hoAvever, 
for gratulation. Padre Ab'ai'o returned at 
once to the draAving-room, from Avhich the 
Administrator Avas just about to set forth 
Avith his prisoner for Ahil-Moura. A short 
explanation sufficed to bring the magistrate, 
his secretary, and the doctor^ up to the 
dark-room. There they Avere shown the 
plate, and given all particulars of the history 
of its exposure. I cannot say how far our 
strange story Avould have succeeded, un¬ 
supported, in winning the credence of these 
gentlemen, but the testimony of Avorthy 
Padre Aharo gave us a complete victory 
along the line. 

AVe returned in a body to the draAving- 
room, the Administrator himself bearing the 
precious negative gingeily betAveen his fingers. 
Cliarlie had impressed upon liim that great 
care Avas necessary for its pi’eservation. 

As soon as we were settled in our places— 
Charlie and myself alongside poor Maurice— 


and the shuffling of feet had subsided, the 
Administrator called for Bento. 

The Avretch came reluctantly forward, this 
time shoAving considerable trepidation. He 
evidently felt a presentiment that something 
must have gone aAvry Avith his scheme. The 
Administrator did not keep him long indoubt, 
for after asking Bento a feAV questions he 
roundly accused him of the murder of 
Cardoso. 

The excitement this announcement caused 
Avas intense among those not in the secret. 
Maria Barbara Avent into hysterics and Avas 
carried out, and Maurice looked up Avith a 
freshly aAvakened interest. 

Bento licked his dry lips and affirmed his 
innocence by all the saints, but the production 
of the uegatiA'e, Avhich Avas shoAvn and ex¬ 
plained to him, convinced him that he had 
no loophole for escape. That apparently 
innocent-looking square of glass had trapped 
him into penal servitude for life. He saAV 
the game Avas up, made a virtue of necessity, 
and confessed Avith the most cold-blooded 
frankness that jealousy had been the motive of 
his crime, and that his opportunity bad been 
the quarrel between Maurice and Cardoso. 

^Alaurice, Charlie, and I did not remain at 
the Quinta until the formalities securing 
Bento’s permanent residence in Angola Avere 
concluded. In less than tAvo days Ave had 
shaken the dust of it from oui’ feet, but aat 
left behind us, as a gift to good old Padre 
AB'aro, the camera that had done us such 
yeoman’s service. 

Cardoso’s aAvful fate Avas not a subject Ave 
liked to discuss afterAvards ; but I gathered 
from Maurice, before the affair Avas finally 
put aside, that he had left my room on that 
eventful evening bent upon Avreaking his 
passion upon his enemy if he should en¬ 
counter him. The terrible manner in Avhich he 
had been forestalled Avas a great shock to him. 

As for Bosita, I have since seen her several 
times in the streets of Oporto. She did not 
long Avear the Avillow. She married a Avell- 
to-do farmer in the Serra da Estrella, and is 
noAv more buxom, but as captivating as ever. 
To judge from her appearance. Bento Hedo’s 
life-long incarceration and Cardoso’s death 
lie as lightly as feather-down upon her 
pretty shoulders 



The lawyer asked the witness if the incident 
previously alluded to wasn’t a miracle, and the 
witness said he didn’t know what a miracle was. 

“Oh, come!” said the attorney. “Supposing 
you were looking out of a window in the twelfth 
storey of a building, and should fall out ai d should 
not be injured. What would you call that? ” 

“ An accident,” was the stolid leply. 

“Yes, yes; hut suppose you were doing the 
same thing the next day ; suppose you looked out 
of the twelfth storey window and fell out, and again 
should find yourself iiniiijured. What would 
you call that?” “ A coincidence,” said the witness. 

“Oh, come, now,” the lawyer began again. “ I 
want you to understand what a miracle is, and 
I’m sure you do. Just suppose that on the third 
day you wei-e looking out of the twelfth storey 
window and fell out and struck your head on the 
pavement twelve storeys below and were not in the 
least injured. What would you call it ?”. 

“ Three times ? ” said the witness, rousing a 
little from his a])athy. “Well, I’d call that a 
habit.” And then the lawyer gave it u[). 



Son: I know why little black boys is so happy. 
Parent: Why? 

Son : ’Cause their mothers can’t tell when their 
hands isn’t clean. 


NOVEL APPAREL. 

Wanted - novels, cheap ; or exchange new underclothing.” 

—Advertisement in a 0)7itei)ijx}rary. 

Whichever way this problem’s viewed, 

An odd exchange it surely looks; 

Naturalism, highly crude, 

Must sound the keynote of these books. 

Or does the barterer belong 
To some fad coterie, which grieves 
At modern dress as wholly wrong, 

And advocates a garb of leaves? 

Fiction wears well, one must allow; 

(A print dress is in households seen I) 

But leafy costume is, I vow, 

A novel “wearin’ o’ the green.” 

A. R, 



JOKES WITHOUT WORDS. BY ALFRED RONNER. NO. I.—THE ITINEIiANT CHOTOGRA CM ER. 

(^Continued on the next paye.) 

235 









































































































































































288 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Mrs. Platitude: What is the use of worrying, 
George? It doesn’t do any good to bori'ow 
trouble. 

Her Husband : Borrow trouble ? Good 
Heavens! Pm not borrowing it! On the contiaiy, 
I have any amount to lend! 


Sir Fitz Snuggins : It is too good of you to 
remember me after the dance at the Assembly 
Booms! 

Miss 1)e Bret : Oh, but that is because you 
have one of those faces which we women try in 
vain to forget. 



EXT a E M ELY AW K WART). 

Doctor (doing up a prescription in liis dispensary): Now, boy, hurry up witii a piece of string. 
Boy: I'm trying to, sir, but someone’s bin and cut off the end! 


“ All I care to say, your honour,” said the 
red-nosed inebriate, “ is that 1 am not one who 
drinks whisky with the idea that it’s food. I 
may be a drunkard, your honour, but Pm no 
dietetic crank.” 



“Sir, I have come to ask you for the hand of 
your daughter.” 

“ For Muriel’s hand ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. It is a mere formality, I know; but 
we thought it would be more pleasing to you to 
have me go through with it.” 

“What’s that? A mere formality ? And may 
I inquire who suggested that asking my consent 
to my daughter’s marriage was only a mere 
formality ? ” 

“ It was Muriel’s mother, sir.” 

“ Oh! In that case I have nothing more to 
say.” 


“ I HEAR there is some talk of enqdoying women 
to collect the Census returns,” said the Sweet 
Young Piling in her smoothest tones. 

“ Good idea,” said tlie Savage Bachelor, to her 
great astonishment. 

“Do you really think so?” 

“Yes, I do. If there is anything on earth a 
Avoman is fit for, it is the business of finding out 
about other people’s affairs.” 



In one of our esteemed contemporaries we 
noticed an article entitled, “ Onions Begarded as 
Food.” We oui’selves liave always regarded them 
in this light, and we consider it our solemn duty 
to give an impressive warning to all who persist 
in regai’ding them as a beverage, assuring them 
that they are making tracks in quite the wrong 
direction. 





























Zbc JEi'tra Cbar^e. 

IIoKTKiULTUitAi. Oli) (iKNTi.KMAN : :My i^ood Ilian, tlidse plants I l)oui«lit i’roin you last Aveek had no roots 

" Itinerant Florist: All right, mister, yer can still ’ave the roots if yer likes ter pay fer ’em. I alius 
charges extry fer roots. 






240 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SUMMER YOUTH. 

Sy JF. KlicUmann. 

Time was, he blazed in stripes of blue, 
Magenta, green, and red; 

Until the sight of his canoe 
Turned every tadpole’s head! 

His linen was the tender tint 
Of Nankeen china jars; 

His cummerbund conveyed a hint 
Of Mandalay bazaars. 

Upon his hat the florid band 
Was jaunty as his jacket; 

And when, in pensive pose, he’d stand 
And toy the tennis racquet. 


His colour-scheme was so immense. 
His foes remarked, in malice. 

It spared them need of spending pence 
On fireworks at the Palace. 

Time was ! 

But now he’s keen to wear 
The raw-sienna hues; 

While khaki dust sets in his hair, 

And khaki cakes his shoes! 

But though this colour he adore, 

We entertain the hope 
That, while on Afric’s sunny shore. 

He won’t forget—like Mr. Boer— 

The primal use of soap I 





THE FORCE OF HABIT. 

“A hell was always rung to warn the defenders to get under cover before the fall of the Boer shells "Siege of Ladysmith 

Captain Spinks (invalided home from Ladysmith, and hearing the muffin man) : Great Scott! Maria, jump, 
before the shell bursts. 






































Jii a Summer Xan5. 

FiIOM TIIK PlCTl IiK BY HakOLD PkKCIVAI. 












rowDKii TLAY IN 'HU-: sow, tancieii. 


A PROBLEM FOR EM FIRES: 

SOME NOTES ABOUT MOROCXT). 

By S. L. Bexsusan. 

Photographs by A. Cavilla^ Tangier. 


I T is very surprising that in these days of 
universal travelling Morocco slionld 
still remain to tlie great mass of 
Englishmen an unknown land. Some few 
sunshine-seekers visit Tangier, a few sports¬ 
men seek tlieir favourite pastime in the great 
forest of Argan, lying beyond Mogador ; 
the men who travel inland to ]\Iarakesli, 
Meqninez, Fez, AYazzan, and the delecta))le 
district of the Sns may he numbered on the 
fingers of one hand. And yet the country 
of the Aloors has a fascination that stirs the 
heart and fires the blood, that calls forth not 
a few of the adventurous Englishman’s best 
qualities; for it lies beyond the lands of 
conventional civilisation, and a man lives as 
he lists, not without some little danger, but 
with a coinpeusatiiig joy of life that tlie 
countries of the Great Powers can hardly 
o!fer. 

It seems strange to pass from tlie grim 
rock on which England guards the Mediter¬ 
ranean Sea and to cross in three short hours to 
a country that seems to have re-risen from the 
pages of the “ Arabian Nights.” It is a land 
of arbitrary Cadis and evil-working Bashas ; 
of a plenty that satisfies nobody, often 
August, 1900. 


succeeded by famine that lays whole districts 
waste ; a world of fighting ti’ibes that are 
equally careless of life and death ; a land 
where the rich grind the faces of the poor, 
and the governors grind the rich, and the 
Sultan or his Grand Vizier grinds the 
governors. As an Em])ire, .Morocco is even 
more rotten than Turkey, and seemingly 
nearer its end, for the corruption and cruelty 
pass belief, intrigue is rife in eveiy quarter, 
and the reins of govei’iiment, so long held by a 
strong man wjth a broken constitution, are 
now in the hands of an untried man. “ In 
a very few years all England will have heard 
of Alorocco—perhaps they will liear of it too 
late.” So said an experienced diplomat in 
the course of a recent conversation ; and the 
more 1 pondered his words, the more clearly 
I realised the gravity of the crisis that will 
come with a cliange of the balance of power 
in that corner of Africa. 

From time to time one heai’s reports of 
the vast wealth of Morocco, and people who 
never set a foot in the country hasten to say 
it has no existence save in the imagination 
of story-tellers. Yet the few who have 
travelled through the interior tell of a 
2-13 s 2 


244 


77/A’ WlNDSOll MAGAZINE. 



mineral wealth that liids fair to rival the 
Transvaal,unde veloped and nnexploited - - first, 
because the Moors ])elieve it is against the 
will of Allah to break into the Ijowels of 
the earth; secondly, because the Sultans and 
their advisers have ])een quick to realise 
that with the advent of the mining indnstiy 
the downfall of the native Government can 
no longer be delayed. The fate of Major 
Spilsbnry’s endeavour on behalf of the Globe 
Yenture Syndicate, formed to ti'ade with the 
Sns, will not be forgotten in this connection, 
and other attempts on a smaller scale have 
been made, witli less rklamo, ])ut no better 
result. Tlie restrictions that hamper this 
branch of industry find counterpart in other 
directions. Morocco is reckoned, throughout 
vast tracts of land, to be one of the most 
fertile countries of tlie world. It has corn¬ 
growing districts even riclier than our valley 
of the Dee at home ; for here the land must 
be served by the sweat of man’s brow, while 
in Morocco it needs but to be tickled with a 
hoe in order to laugh with a harvest. There, 
again, a most pernicious system of restriction 
comes in. The Shereefian Government will 
not permit grain to be sent from one part of 


rOWI>KK I’LAY AT TANGIER. 

tlie country to another, 
and consequently for one 
year a district may be so 
rich in grain that the 
harvest rots for lack of 
adequate labour to gather 
it, and the next year 
there may be star\’ation 
in the same (|uarter. 
There is little or no storage in any of the 
inland towns ; foi’, so soon as a man shows 
even slight signs of Avealth, theGovernoi* comes 
upon him for a heavy subsidy, and if he does 
not ])ay he is thrown into prison and left to 
starve. Industry is ])aralysed. In order to 
realise how such a state of things becomes 
possible, it should be noted that every 
governor of a Moroccan town pays the 
Sultan heavily for his post. It is clearly 
understood that he will get his capital back, 
together with a veiy large interest, from the 
unluqipy ]ieople he is called upon to govern I 
Morocco is roughly parcelled out among 
certain trilies, all owing fealty to the Sultan. 
In some cases the fealty is merely nominal, 
in others the fealty might almost be said to 
exist on the other side, for the Sultan has to 
subsidise certain tribes to keep them quiet. 
MTien the late Sultan, Muley llassan, took 
his woeful journey to Tablet, a journey which 
brought about his death, he went with an 
army estimated at forty thousand men. 
These men ate whole districts clear of food ; 
but on his return journey the Sultan had to 
bribe some of the fiercer tribes very heavily 
to keep his own hordes from annihilation. 









.4 PkOBLKM FOR FMFTRFS. 


245 



THE TKOCESSION OK THE HOl-Y t'AItl'ET TI! HOUGH TANGIER UN ITS WAY TO MEGGA. 


Mr. Walter Harris, who has the honour of 
being the one Englishman who has made his 
way to Tafilet, says that the expedition was 
only saved from annihilation on the return 
journey by subsidies and the expedient of 
keeping the Sultan’s death, private. 

I have, perliaps, said enough to give some 
small general idea of life in a country wliose 
fascination is but little affected in tlie eyes of 
Europeans by the native maladministration. 
It is interesting to turn to the action of the 
Great Powers. Though the Sultan’s Court 
is nearly always at Marakesh or Eez, the 
Legations are all at Tangier. France has 
military missions with the Court and at 
Rabat, on the coast, the Court doctor is 
French, but the military organisation is to 
some extent under the supervision of Kaid 
Harry Maclean, C.M.G., an adventurous and 
gallant Englishman, who has spent a quarter 
of a century in the Shereehan service, and 
lives at Marakesh with his wife and family, 
in high favour with the Court. In Tangier, 
however, the Ambassadors ai’e all installed. 
Sir iVrthur Nicliolson representing England ; 
M. Revoil, aided by M. de Lamartiniere, 
France; and Sr. Hon Ojeda, who will 


possibly be recalled before these lines are 
published, Spain. The other Powers have 
their Embassies there, but interest centres 
round the Embassies of England, France, 
and Spain. In any question affecting the 
vital interests of Morocco, England must 
make her voice heard, for witli a hostile 
power holding Tangier, our Mediterranean 
control would be seriously tlireatened. 
Ceuta, the other Moorish port opposition on 
the Mediterranean, belongs to Spain, and is 
commanded by Gibraltar, which faces it 
across the Strait. Ho small sensation was 
caused by a recent report that it was to be 
leased to Russia, a report seemingly without 
foundation. So far as can be seen, England 
is not taking steps to extend lier influence in 
Morocco. France, on tlie otlier hand, has 
been showing an extraordinary activity for 
some years past. Algeria lies on Morocco’s 
eastern boundary, and by means of her 
railway running from Oran to Tlemcen, 
and turned soutli—under past diplomatic 
pressure—to Fignig, commands the city 
of Fez, the northern capital of jMorocco. 
The intervening country has been mapped 
out by French ‘‘ scientific missions,” 






246 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


like the one that seized the Oases of 
Tuat ill January. Moreover, there are 
thousands upon thousands of j\Ioors—I fear 
to quote the numbers given to me, lest they 
sound exaggerated—who are to all intents 
and purposes Frenchmen. A system of 
protection prevails throughout Morocco— 
England is the only Great Power that does 
not grant it freely—by which the protected 
Moor becomes the subject of the jirotecting 
Power. Tn this way he avoids the extortion 
and cruelty of his own rulers and is doubtless 
reckoned upon against the day when the 
Moorish Empire will come to earth with a 
crash that Avill sliake half Europe. France 
recruits soldiers for her Algerian army and 


gives protection to the recruits and their 
families in return for one year’s military 
service. She supplies the Shereelian army 
with artillerymen, and, as I have said, has 
two important military missions in the 
country, one inland, the other on the coast. 
These owe their creation largely to the skill 
and ingenuity of M. de Lamartiniere, a clever 
diplomat who, though he is content with the 
nominal position of first secretary to the 
French Legation, exercises a very great 
influence in the country to which he may, 
sooner or later, be made Ambassador, lie 
is a very versatile man, whc has written a 
good book on the route to Fez, and well- 
informed people trace to his influence the 
French protection of the sacred city of 


Wazzan. This town, which is of great 
interest, is nearly fifty miles inland from 
Laraiche, the first port of size on the western 
coast; it is the residence of the Shereefs of 
Wazzan, who claim direct descent from the 
Prophet Mohammed, and wield no little 
])olitical power. The Shereefs have all 
accepted French protection and will doubtless 
throw their influence into the French 
scale wlien the proper time arrives. Tlie 
young Shereef, son of the late Shereef Sidi 
Plaj Absolom, was educated at a French 
military school, and the widow of the late 
Shereef is living in Tangier under the 
protection of P’rance and in receipt of a 
French pension. In AVazzan, I am told, 
the slave trade flourishes un¬ 
checked. It is not PT-ench 
policy to alter any of the 
existing evils; for only when 
the distress and discontent 
reach their height will she be 
nble to act—nominally, no 
doubt, in the interests of 
civilisation. 

Spain’s position in Morocco 
is peculiar. AVell-informed 
opinion represents her as 
anxious to extend her in¬ 
fluence in the country and 
to seek at her threshold, so 
to speak, a solace for the 
disappointments and disasters 
of her recent war. Ceuta is a 
position capable of exercising 
great influence in the Medi¬ 
terranean, but it is not like 
Gibraltar, and could not be 
made in any degree equal to 
it without an expenditure 
that Spanish resources are 
(juite unable to endure. 
PTirther down the coast, where the Medi¬ 
terranean is wider, Spain owns a very 

large expanse of territory, including Melilla, 
like Ceuta, a convict station. In the war 
with ]\Iorocco, now nearly two score years 
old, Spain seized Tetuan and only gave it up 
in consideration of an indemnity that was 
probably never paid; and it is (piite reasonable 
that, when Spain can again look abroad, she 
should seek to extend her power in Morocco. 
AVhat France will say remains to be seen. 
France is the tried friend, with money, who 
holds the bulk of Spanish securities and has 
a big voice in controlling Madrid’s foreign 
policy ; but at the same time Paris must 
never be obnoxious to Madrid, for some three 
hundred thousand men would be required to 



A INIOOiaSH MKAL. 




RABAT, STATION OF THE FOREIGN MILITARY MISSIONS. 




TUFj WINDSOn MAGAZJNE. 




248 

guard the Pyrenean frontier in case of a war 
between France and any other Great Power, 
unless Spain were friendly. 

The other Great Powers are not active in 
Morocco, though they might actively resent 
any coiq) d'kat. Russia’s Embassy only came 
into existence eighteen months ago, at the 
recjuest of France. There are no Russians 
in Morocco, or very few ; outside the Embassy 
there is said to be only one Russian subject 
in Tangier. 

Quite apart from the political problems 
awaiting solution, the fascination of Morocco 
is apparent to every man who can ride, shoot, 
and take care of himself. In the coast towns 
there is little or no danger ; even in the 
interior it is probably less dangerous than 
people have said. On the coast a knowledge 
of Spanish will take a man anywhere ; for tlie 
interior a knowledge of xirabic, most difficult 
of languages to speak accurately or write 
fluently, is imperative. The coast town natives 
are quite harmless, but the majority of the 
tribesmen from the interior, the warlike 
Riffians and Tuaregs, Rerbers both, the 
Shenouahs from Abyssinia, the coal-black 
Soudanese from Kitchener’s country, and the 
many other tribes of men who come through 
the interior witli caravans bearing all kinds 
of merchandise, are a quarrelsome crowd. 


GRINDING CORN, TANGIER. 


A MOOR AT Ills rilAYERS. 


There is more than a strong suspicion that 
human merchandise finds a big ])lace in 
caravans that start from the south and 
never approach the coast. If the Powers 
were not divided against themselves, these 
abuses would not last six months; as 
things are, they will endure as long as the 
iRoroccan Empire endures in its present 
form. The scenes in the great markets held 
in all large towns are most interesting and 
picturesque. One spends hours among them 
and never knows fatigue. iMoorish cafes and 
Moorish prisons, Mooi’ish shops and Moorish 
street scenes, marriage and burial 
customs, actions at law, civil or 
criminal — of one and all a 
N'olume might lie written without 
exhausting the possibilities of the 
subject. It is probable that 
Japan has been more influenced 
l)y Western ideas than Morocco ; 
for even in Tangier, the town 
to which most English and 
American visitors come, the 
natives do not abate one jot of 
their ceremonial life ; the scenes 
in the market-place alone would 
make the average Englishman 
believe he was a thousand miles 
away from the civilisation of the 
West. Caravans of camels are 
still the ships of the desert, and 
come to the Sok with skins of 




.1 I^ROIILHM roil EMPTlirr. 


'2P,) 




wild aninulls from tlie land of the B’ni 
^rCfild, and dates from I'aiilet ; the Arab 
story-teller yet finds a crowd to sifc round 
him in a circle, heedless of the scorching 
siin, the vicious flies, and tlie cries of the 
sellers far and near, and listening entranced 
to stories of genii and princesses, of magic 
and enchantments, of love and war. The 
mvczzia still calls tlie faithful from their 
bargain and sale, to stretcli a piece of carpet 
upon the sand, turn towards Mecca, and pray 
devoutly. The Basha still administers what 
he is ideased to call justice ])y the gate of the 
Kasbah, and beyond the hills wild tribes meet 
and decide their differences with old flint¬ 
lock gims calculated to do most harm to 
those who stand behind them. A fair 
horse may be purchased for five pounds, 
though it may never be taken out of the 
country; fruit and ^'egetables are always 
cheap ; a fowl may lie bouglit for ninepence, 


and native servants are readily procured ; so 
that for a very few pounds per month a man 
may live in comfort amid surroundings whose 
charm becomes^ apparent so soon as the first 
sense of novelty has Avorn off. Trade is 
restricted and land is hard to buy. There are 
a feAV other disadvantages, but to all the coast 
ports trading stcamei’s pay visits at short 
intervals, when the Aveather jiermits, Avhile 
the service betAveen Tangier and Gibi’altai’ 
is daily, and Spain can be I'eached from 
Tangier and from Ceuta. 

How soon Avill the great change come ? 
That is the question asked on all sides, for 
troubles and inti’igues have l)een dangerously 
oil the increase in the last two years, and the 
Avatchers on tlie spot are conscious that the 
end is near. Upon the late Grand Vizier, 
“Abu ITamed,” a man of extraordinary 
versatility and capacity for intrigue, avIio took 
tlie reins of government in his hands Avlien 
the late Sultan 
Muh'V Hassail died, 
the future of 
^forocco was 
thought to depend. 
“Abu Hained” rose 
from the lowest 
])0si ti0 11 to be 
Chamberlain, and 
there Avere many 
intrigues against 
his influence ; but 
he brought off a 
sudden covp, ob¬ 
tained the dismissal 
and doAvnfall of the 
(fraud Yizier and 
the Minister of 
AVar, took the first 
post himself, and 
gave the other to 
his lirother. He 
has been to Morocco 
Avhat the Dowager 





250 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Empress has been to China, but, if report 
speaks truly, he was careful enough to accept 
French protection, thus keeping his life and 
liberty secure in the event of losing power as 
suddenly as he acquired it. The Sultan 
Muley Abdul Aziz is still little more than a 
boy; tlie Yizier kept him amused, and the 
Sultan was long content to show his interest 
in State affairs by inspecting any gifts of 
artillery that were made by foreign Powers. 
The Grand Yizier was a party to all the evils 
that make Morocco the scourge of its native 
population, but he saved the country from 
revolution and the sudden upheaval that 
might play directly into the liands of France. 
On this account it is, perhaps, unfortunate 
that ‘‘ Abu Hained ” is dead, but at the time 
of VTiting it is impossible to predicate the 
political results of his deatli. 

It is quite certain that in any questions 
relating to the ultimate dispositioji of the 
Moroccan Empire there will be many 
conflicting interests. With England tlie 
Mediterranean question is paramount, quite 
apart from the vast agricultural and mineral 
resources tliat must be opened in the near 
future. Witli Frenchmen there is the dream 
of pushing the Algerian occupation to the 
west until it stops on the boi’ders of the 
Atlantic, and in this way establishing an 
African Empire not nnwortliy of comparison 
with our own. To tliis end France has 
been working assiduously for years, wliile 
other interested Powers have been (juiescent. 
Spain’s interest lias been discussed, and of 
course no Mediterranean Power can be 
indifferent to the fate tliat awaits a country 
with such an extensive seaboard. While Sir 


John Drummond Hay was our Minister to 
the Moroccan Court, English prestige was at 
its height. I have been told that he would 
call upon Sid Moliammed d’orres, tlie then 
Minister for Foreign Affairs, and ask as a 
matter of course to see the latest despatches 
from the Shcrecflan Court. Sir Chai’les 
Euan Sinitli made a bold attempt to develop 
English prestige, but was not backed up by 
the Home Government, and retired into 
private life, a disappointed man. Sir Kiiliy 
Green’s tenure of office was not productive 
of any great developments, and of Sir Arthur 
Nicholson no more can be said at present 
than that he is very popular and is believed 
to have great gifts. It is likely that he 
will soon have occasion to show them. 

Morocco has been the subject of many 
interesting boolvs. The most modern are 
written by Messrs. P. B. Cuiminghame 
Graham, Walter B. Harris, and Budget 
Meakin, and the student who wishes to learn 
all he can about a country that must soon 
loom large in European politics may be 
recommended to give these writo-is an earnest 
study. French writers include Pierre Loti 
and M. de Lamartiniere, to whose book 
I liave referred. A single magazine article 
cannot hope to deal adequately with any 
aspect of a country whose history in the 
present as in the ])asfc is so complicated. 
I have l)een content to write in the hope of 
awakening an interest against the time when 
everybody will be speaking about the country, 
and few will be acquainted with either the 
events that have led to the forthcoming 
troubles or the people and interests most 
concerned in them. 









YOUNG BARBARIANS. 



By IAN MACLARER* 

Illmtrated bij Harold (^rpplng. 


No. III.—MOOSSY. 


F the eyes 
of an old 
boy do not 
light np at 
tlie men- 
ti 0n of 
“ Moossy,” 
then it is 
no nse his 
plead in g 
the years 
which have 
passed and 
the great 
affairs 
wliichhave 
filled his 
life; yon 
know at 
once that 

he is an impostor and has never had the 
privilege of passing through Mnirtown 
Seminary. Upon the gennine boy—fifty 
years old now, but green at heart—tlie word 
is a very talisman, for at the sound of it the 
worries of life and the years that have gone 
are forgotten, and the eyes light np and the 
face relaxes, and the middle-aged man lies 
back in his chair for the fnll enjoyment of 
the past. It was a rough life in tlie Seminary, 
with plain food and strennons games ; with 
well-worn and well-torn clothes; where little 
trouble was taken to give interest to your 
work, and little praise awarded when you 
did it well; where you were bullied liy the 
stronger fellows without redress, and tliraslied 
for very little reason ; where there were also 
many coarsenesses Avhich were sickening at 
the time to any lad with a sense of decency, 
and which he is glad, if he can, to forget ; 
but, at least, there was one oasis in the 
wilderness where there was nothing but 
enjoyment for the boys, and that was the 
“ Department of Modern Languages,” over 
which Moossy was supposed to preside. 


* Copyri.i!;lit, 1900, by John Watson, in the UniteJ 
States of America. 


Things have changed since Moossy’s day, 
and now there is a graduate of the University 
of Paris and a fearful martinet to teach 
young Mnirtown Frencli, and a Heidelberg 
man with several degrees and four sword- 
cuts on his face to explain to Mnirtown the 
mysteries of the German sentence. Indignant 
boys, who have heard appetising tales of the 
days which ai’e gone, are compelled to 
‘‘ swat ” at Continental tongues as if they 
were serious languages like Latin and Greek, 
and are actually kept in if they have not 
done a French verb. They are required to 
Avrite an account of their holidays in German, 
and are directed to enlarge their vocabulary 
by speaking in foreign tongues among them¬ 
selves. Things have come to such a pass— 
but I do not believe one word of this—that 
the modern Sparrow, before he pnlls off the 
modern Dowbiggin’s bonnet and flings it 
into the lade, which still runs as it used to 
do, Avill be careful to say “ Hrlaahea Sie niir,'' 
and that the modern Dowliiggin, before 
rescuing his bonnet, will turn and inquire 
with mild .surprise, “ Was ivollen Sie, mein 
Freund ? ” and precocious lads will delight 
their parents at the breakfast-table by asking 
for their daily bread in the language and 
accent of Paris, because for the moment they 
have forgotten English. It is my own firm 
conviction, and nothing can shake it, that 
Mnirtown lads are just as incapable of 
explaining their necessary wants in any 
speech exce])t their own as they Avere in the 
days of our fathers, and that if a Seminary 
boy Avere landed in Calais to-day, he would 
get his food at the buffet by making sipis 
AA’ith his fingers, as his father had done before 
him and as becomes a young barbarian, 
lie Avould also take care, as his fathers did, 
that he Avould not be cheated in his change 
nor be put upon by any “ Frencliy.” Foreign 
graduates may do their best Avith Seminary 
lads-and their kind elseAvhere —but they 
Avill not find it easy to shape their unruly 
tongues ; for the Briton is fully persuaded in 
the background of his mind that he belongs 
to an imperial race and is born to be a rulei*. 


2:)i 


















252 


THK WINDSOR MAG AZINK. 



“ But iMoossy was little better than an abject." 

that every man will sooner oi* later have to 
speak his language, and that it is undignified 
to condescend to French. The Briton is 
pleased to know that foreign nations have 
some means of communication between 
themselves—as, indeed, the loAver animals 
have, if you go into the matter; but since 
the Almighty has put an English (or Scots) 
tongue in his mouth, it would be flying in 
the face of Providence not to use it. It is, 
however, an excellent thing to have the 
graduates, and the trim class-room, and the 
tables of the foreign verbs upon the wall, and 
the conversation-classes—the Sparrow at a 
conversation-class !—and all the rest of it; 
but, oh ! the days of long ago—and Moossy ! 

Like our only otlier foreigner, the 
Count, iMoossy was a nameless man, for 
although it must have been printed on 
the board in the vestibule of the school, 
which had a list of masters and of classes, 
no one can hint at Moossy’s baptismal 
name, nor even suggest his surname. The 
name of the Count liad been suid< in the 
nobility which we confeiTed upon him, and 
which was the tribute of our respectful admii’a- 
tion, but “ Moossy ” was a term of good- 
humoured contempt. We were only Scots 
lads of a provincial town, and knew nothing 
of the outside world; but yet, with the 
instincts of a race of Chieftains and Clansmen, 
we distinguished in our minds between our 


two foreigners and placed them far apart. 
No doubt the Count was womanish in his 
dress, and had fantastic manners, but we 
knew he was a gallant gentleman, who was 
afraid of nobody and was always ready to 
serve his friends ; he was dehonnaire^ and 
counted himself the equal of anyone in 
Muirtown, but Moossy was little better than 
an abject. He was a little man, to begin 
Avith, and had made himself smaller by 
stooping till his head liad sunk upon his 
chest and his slioulders liad risen to Ids 
ears ; his hair fell over the collar of his coat 
behind, and his ill-dressed beard hid any shirt 
he wore ; his hands and face shoAved only 
the slightest acquaintance Avith soap and 
water, and although the SparroAV was not 
ahvays careful in his own personal ablutions, 
and more than once liad been sent down to 
the lade by Bulldog to Avash himself, yet the 
Sparrow had a healthy contempt for a dirty 
master. Moossy’s clothes, it Avas believed, 
had not been reneAved since he came to the 
Seminary, and the cloak Avhich he wore on a 
winter day Avas a scandal to the town. Plis 
feetAA'ere large and flat, and his knees touched 
as the one passed the other, and the Seminary 
Avas honestly ashamed at the sight of him 
shambling across the North MeadoAV. He 
looked so mean, so ill put together, so 
shabby, so dirty, that the very “Pennies” 
hooted at him and flung him in our faces. 
The Rector Avas also careless of his dress, and 
mooned along the road, but then everybody 
knew that he aaixs a mighty scholar, and that 
if you Avoke him from his meditation he 
Avoiild ansAver you in Creek ; lint even the 
Sparrow understood that Moossy Avas not a 
scholar. The story drifted about through 
Muirtown, and filtered down to the boys, that 
he Avas a liankriqit tradesman Avlio had fled 
from some little Cerman toAvn and landed in 
i\IuirtoAvn, and that because he could speak a 
little English and a little French, as Cerman 
tradesmeiL can, he had been appointed by an 
undiscriminating Toavii Council to teach 
foreign tongues at the Seminary. It is 
certain he had very little education and no 
confidence in himself, and so he Avas ever 
cringing to the bailies, AAdiich did him no 
injiuT, for these great men regarded them¬ 
selves as beings bordering on the super¬ 
natural ; and he Avas eA^er deferring and giving 
in to the boys, Avhich Avas the maddest thing 
that any master could do, and only confirmed 
every boy in his judgment that Moossy Avas 
one of the most miserable of Cod’s creatures. 

His classes met in the afternoon, and Avere 
regarded as a pleasant relaxation after the 


MOOSS)\ 


25B 


labours of tlie dav, and to osca])'j from the 
government of Bulldog to tin; genial freedom 
of Moossy’s room proved, as we felt in a vague 
way, that Providence liad a tender heart 
towards the wants and enjoyments of boys. 
It goes without saying that no work was 
done, for there were only half a dozen who 
had any desire to work, and tliey were not 
allowed, in justice to themselves and to their 
fellows, to waste the mercies which had been 
provided. Upon Bulldog’s suggestion, jMoossy 
once provided liimself with a cane, but it 
failed in his hands the first time he tried to 
use it, Avhich was not at all wonderful, as 


John, sitting at the head of his form and 
Avoi-king diligently upon a Fionch transla¬ 
tion, which lie could do better than Moossy 
himself, the Sparrow would make a signal to 
the form, and, leading off from the foot him¬ 
self, the form would give one quick, 
unanimous, and masterful push, and Thomas 
John next instant was sitting on the floor ; 
while if, by any possibility, they could land 
all his books on him as he lay, and baptise 
him out of his own ink-bottle, the form was 
ha])])y and called in their friends of other 
forms to rejoice with them. Moossy, at the 
noise of Thomas John’s falling, would hurry 



“ The form would ^’ive one (juick, ununimoijj;, and masterful push, and 


Jock Howieson, who did not ajiprove of 
canes, and regarded them as an invention of 
the Evil One, had doctored Moossy’s cane 
with a horse-hair, so that it split into two at 
a stroke, and one ])iece flying back struck 
Moossy on the face. 

‘‘ Tliat ’ill learn him to be meddling with 
canes. It’s plenty that Bulldog has a cane, 
without yon meeserable wretch ” : and that 
was the last effort which Moossy made to 
exercise discipline. 

Every afternoon he made a pitiable appeal 
that the boys would behave and learn their 
verbs. For about ten minutes there was 
(juietness, and then, at the sight of Thomas 


ovei* and inquire the cause, that a boy so 
exemplary and diligent should be sitting on 
the floor with the remains of his work 
around liim : and as Thomas John knew 
that it Avould be avoitIi his life to tell the 
reason, l\roossy and he pretended to regard 
it as one of the unavoidable accidents of life, 
and after Thomas John had been restored to 
his place, and the ink Aviped ofF his clothes, 
Moossy exhoi’ted the form to quietness and 
diligence. He kneAV Avhat had happened, 
and would have been fit for a lunatic asylum 
if he had not ; and Ave kneAv that he kneAv, 
and Ave all despised him for his cowardice. 
Had there been enough spirit in Moossy to 










254 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


go for Sparrow (just as Bulldog would liave 
clone), and thrash him tliere and then as he 
sat in his seat, brazen and nnasliained, we 
would all have respected Moossj, and no one 
more than Sparrow, to whom all fresh 
exploits would have had a new relish. But 
Moossy was a broken-spirited man, in whom 
there was no figlit, who held a post he was 
not fit for, and held it to get a poor living 
for himself and one who was dearer to him 
than his own life. So helpless was he, and so 
timid, that there Avere times Avhen the boys 
grew Aveary of their teasing and disorder, 
and condescended to repeat a verb in order 
to pass the time. 

When the spring Avas in their blood—for, 
like all young animals, they felt its stirring— 
then there Avere Avonderfnl scenes in iMoossy’s 
class-room. He dared not stand in those 
days between two forms, Avith his face to the 
one and his back to the other, because of the 
elastic catapults and the sharp little paper 
bullets, Avhich, in spite of his long hair, Avonld 
always find out his ears ; and if he tiii’iied 
round to face the battery, the other form 
promptly nnmasked theirs, and between the 
two he was driven to the end of the room ; 
and then, in his very presence, Avithont a 
pretence of concealment, the two forms would 
settle their differences, Avhile, in guttural and 
uncultured German, Moossy prayed for peace. 
Times there were, I am sorry to say, Avlien at 
the sting of the bullet Moossy said bad 
Avords, and although they Avere in Gei’inan, 
the boys knew that it Avas sAvearing, and 
Sparrow’s voice Avould be loudest in horror. 

“ ]\Iercy on us, lads ! this is aAvful language 
to hear in the Seminary ! If the Toavii 
C ouncil gets AAmrd of this, there ’ill be a fine 
strainish. For masel’,” SparroAV would con¬ 
clude piously, “ I’m perfectly ashamed.” 
And as that accomplished young gentleman 
had acquired in the stables a Avealth of 
profanity Avhich aa'us the amazement of the 
school, his protest had all the more Aveight. 
Poor Moossy Avould apologise for Avhat he 
had said, and beseech the school neither to 
say it themselves nor to tell what they had 
heard ; and for days afteinvards the SparroAV 
Avould be AAixrning Thomas John that if he, 
SparroAA^—censor of morals—caught him 
cursing and SAvearing like Moossy, he Avould 
duck him in the lade, and afterAvards bring 
him before the Lord Provost and magistrates. 

There Avas no end to the devices of 
the Seminary for enjoying themselves and 
tormenting Moossy ; and had it not been 
for Nestle, Avho had some reserves of taste, 
the fun AA'ould have been much more curious. 


As it Avas, Moossy never kneAv when he 
might not light upon a frog, till it seemed 
as if the class-room for modern languages 
Avere the chosen home for the reptiles of the 
district. One morning, Avhen he opened his 
desk a lively young Scots terrier puppy 
sprang u]) to Avelcoine him, and nearly 
frightened Moossy out of such Avits as he 
possessed. He had learned to open the door 
of Ills class-room cautiously, not knoAving 
Avhether a German Dictionary might not be 
ingeniously poised to fall upon his liead. 
His ink-bottle Avould be curiously attached to 
his French Grammar, so that Avhen he lifted 
the book the l)ottle folioAved it and sent the 
spray of ink over his person, adding a neAV 
distinction of dirtiness to his coat. Boys 
going up to Avrite on the blackboard, Avhere 
they iieA'CrAATOte anything but nonsense, would 
Avork symbols Avith light and rapid touch upon 
the back of Moossy’s coat as they returned ; 
and if one after the other, adding to the 
Avork of art, could draAV Avhat AA'as supposed 
to be a human face upon Moossy, the class 
AAaxs satisfied it had not lost the hour. There 
Avere times Avhen Moossy felt the hand even 
on the looseness of that foolish coat, and 
turned suddenly ; but there Avas no shaking 
the brazen impudence of MuirtoAvn, and 
Moossy, looking into the stolid and unintel¬ 
ligent expression of IIoAvieson’s face, thonght 
that he had been mistaken. If one boy was 
set up to do a verb, the form, reading from 
their books and pronouncing on a principle 
of their OAvn, AA’ould do the verb with him 
and continue in a loud and sonorous song, 
till iMoossy had to sto]) them one by one, and 
then they Avere full of indignation at being 
hindered in their studies of the German 
language. 

Moossy Avas afraid to complain to the 
Rector, lest liis oavii incompetence should be 
exposed and his bread be taken from him ; 
and of this the boys, Avith the xxnerring 
cunning of savages, AA^ere perfectly aware, 
and the torture might have gone on for 
years had it not been for the interA'ention of 
Bulldog and a certain incident. As the 
French class-room AA^as above tlie mathe¬ 
matical, any special disturbance conld be 
heard in the quietness beloAv ; and Avhatever 
else they did, the students of foreign 
languages Avere careful not to invite the 
attention of Bulldog. Indeed, the one check 
upon the freedom of Moossy’s room Avas 
the danger of Bulldog’s arrival, Avho was 
engaged tliat hour Avith the little boys and 
had ample leisure of mind to take note of 
any special noise above, and for Avaiit of 



“ Nothing is more dillicult ihuii to catch a mouse." 









THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


25() 

occapation ^vas itcliing to get at old friends 
like Howieson. There are times, however, 
when even a savage forgets himself, and one 
spring day the saturnalia in i\Ioossy’s room 
reached an historical height. It had been 
discovered thaj any dislike which Moossy 
may have had to a pnppy in his desk, and a 
frog in his top-cloak pocket, was nothing to 
the horror with which he regarded mice. 
As soon as it was known that Moossy would 
as soon have had a tiger in the French class¬ 
room as a mouse upon the loose, it was felt 
that the study of foreign languages should 
take a new departure. One morning the 
boys came in with such punctuality, and 
settled to their work with such demure 
diligence, that even Moossy was suspicious 
and watched them anxiously. For ten 
minutes there was nothing heard but the 
drone of the class mangling German 
sentences, and then Howieson cried aloud in 
consternation, ‘‘ A mouse ! ” 

“ Vat ees that yon say ? Ah ! mices ! 
vere ? ” and Moossy was much shaken. 

Yonder,” said Sparrow, pointing to 
where a mouse was just disappearing under 
the desk ; ‘‘ and there’s another at the fire¬ 
place. Dod, the place is fair swarming, and, 
Moossy, there’s one trying to run up your 
leg. Take care, man, for ony sake.” 

“ A mic;es,” cried Moossy, “ vill up my legs 
go ; I vill the desk ascend,” and with the 
aid of a chair Moossy scrambled on to his 
desk, where he entrenched himself against 
attack, believing that at that height he would 
be safe from ‘‘ mices.” 

The Sparrow suggested that as this plague 
of mice had burst upon the French class¬ 
room the scholars should meet the calamity 
like men, and asked Moossy’s permission to 
go out upon the chase. For once ]\Ioossy 
and his pupils had one mind, and the school 
gave itself to its heart’s content, and without 
a thought of consequences, to a mouse hunt. 
Yothing is more difficult than to catch a 
mouse, and the difficulty is doubled when no 
one wishes to catch it; and so the school fell 
over benches, and over one another, and 
jumped over the desks and scrambled under 
them, ever pretending to have caught a 
mouse, and really succeeding once in smother¬ 
ing an unfortunate animal beneath the weight 
of half a dozen boys. Thomas Joliii was 
early smeared with ink from top to bottom 
by an accident in which Howieson took a 
leading part, and the German Hictionaiy 
intended for a mouse happened to take Cosh 
on the Avay, which led to an encounter 
between that indignant youth and Bauldie, in 


which mice were forgotten. The l)lackboard 
was brought down with a crash, and a form 
was securely planted on its ruins. High above 
the babel Moossy could be heard crying 
encouragement, and demanding whether the 
“ mices ” had been caught, but nothing 
would induce him to come down from his 
fastness. When things were at their highest, 
and gay spirits like Sparrow were beginning 
to conclude that even the big snow fight was 
nothing to a mouse hunt, and Howieson had 
been so lifted that he had mounted a desk, 
not to catch a mouse, but to give a cheer, 
and was standing there without collar or tie, 
dishevelled, triumphant, and raised above all 
the trials of life, the door opened and 
Bulldog entered. And it was a beautiful 
tribute to the personality of tliat excellent 
man, that the whole room crystallised in an 
instant, and everyone remained motionless, 
frozen, as it were, in the act. 

Bulldog looked round with that calm 
composure which sat so well upon him, 
taking in Moossy perched upon his desk, 
Howieson on his form. Sparrow sitting with 
easy dignity on the top of Thomas John, and 
half a dozen worthies still tied together in a 
scrimmage, as if this were a sight to which 
he Avas accustomed every day in Muirtown 
Seminary. 

‘‘ Foreign languages,” he began, after a 
pause of ten seconds, “ is evidently a divertin’ 
subject of study, and I Avonder that any 
pupil is left in the department of mathe¬ 
matics. I Avas not aware, Jock, that ye 
needed to stand on a form before you could 
do your German, and I suppose that is the 
French class in the corner. I’m sorry to 
intrude, but I’m pleased to see a class in 
earnest about its Avork. 

“ Mices ! ” remarked Bulldog in icy tones, 
as poor Moossy came doAvn from his desk and 
began to explain. “My impression is that 
you are right, as far as I can judge—and I 
have some acquaintance Avith the circum¬ 
stances. There are a considerable number 
of mices in this room, a good many more 
mices than Avere brought in somebody’s 
pocket this morning. The mices I see Avere in 
my class-room this morning, and they were 
very quiet and peaceable mices, and they’ll 
])e the same in this class-room after this, or 
I’ll know the reason why. If you’ll excuse 
me,” and Bulldog embraced the whole scene 
in a comprehensive farewell, “ I’ll leave the 
foreign class-room and go down and see what 
my laddies are doing Avith their writing ” ; 
and Avhen Bulldog closed the door HoAvieson 
realised that he owed his escape to Bulldog’s 


MOOSSY. 


257 



“They ojune bravely aloni^ the lane, Sparrow i)iillinn’.” 


respect for {iiiotlier man’s class-room, lint 
that the joyful day in modern languages liad 
come to an end. There would be no more 
“ inices.” 

Next Satni’day afternoon Sparrow and 
Nestie were out for a ramble in the country, 
and turning into a lane where the hedgerows 
were breaking into green, and the primroses 
nestling at the roots of the bushes, they came 
upon a sight which made them pause so that 
they could only stand and look. Down the 
lane a man was dragging an inyalid-chaii', a 
poor and broken thing which had seen its 
best days thirty years ago. In tlie chair a 
woman was sitting, or rather lying, yeiy 
plaiidy but comfortal)!}' dressed, and care¬ 
fully wi*ap|)ed up, whose face showed 
that she had suffered mncli, but whose 
cheeks were responding to the breath of 
spring. As they stood, the man stop])ed 
and \yent to the bank and jilucked a handful 
of primroses and gave them to the woman ; 
and as he bent oyer lier, holding up the 
primroses before her eyes, and as they talked 
together, even the boys saw the grateful 
pleasure in her eyes. He adjusted the well- 
worn cloak and changed her position in the 
chair, and then went back to drag it, a 


heavy weight down the soft and yielding 
track ; and the boys stood and stared and 
looked at one another, for the man who was 
caring so gentl}^ for this invalid, and toiling 
so manfnlly with the lumbering chair, was 
Moossy. 

‘‘ Out away. Sparrow,” said Nestie ; he 
wouldn’t like ns to see liim. I say, he ain’t 
a bad sort—:\Ioossy -after all. Bet you a 
bottle of giiiger-beer that’s Moossy’s wife, 
and that’s why he’s so poor.” 

They were heaving the lane when they 
heard an exclamation, and going back they 
found that the miserable machine had slipped 
into the ditch and there stuck fast beyond 
poor Moossy’s ])Owei* of I’ccovery. With 
many an ‘‘ Ach I ” and other words, too, he 
was bewailing the situation and hanging over 
his invalid, while she seemed to be cheering 
him and tiying if she could so lie in the 
chair as to lessen the weight upon the lower 
side, while every minute the wheel sank 
deeper in the soft earth. 

“ What are you staring at, you idle, Avorth- 
less vagabond ? ” said Nestie lo the Sparrow. 

Come along and give a hand to Moossy,” 
who was so pleased to get some help in the 
lonely place that he forgot the revealing of 

T 








258 


THE ]yii\DSOR MAGAZINE. 


his little secret. With Sparrow in the sliafts, 
who had the .strength of a man in his 
compact little ])0(ly, and Moossy pnlling on 
the other side, tlie"coach was soon^ upon the 
road again, amid a torrent of gratitude from 
Moossy and his wife, partly in English, bnt 
mostly in German, hut all quite plain to the 
boys, for gratitude is always understood in 
any language. They came bravely along the 
lane. Sparrow pulling, Moossy hanging over 
his wife to make sure she had not been hurt, 
and Nestie plucking flowers to make up a 
nosegay in memory of the lane, while jMoossy 
declared them to be ^''Zivei herzlkhe Knaben.'" 

When they came to the main road. Sparrow 
would not give up his work, but brought the 
carriage manfully to the little cottage, hidden 
in a garden, where Moossy lodged. When 
she had been carried in—she was so light 
that Moossy could lift her himself—she 
compelled the boys to come in, too, and 
Moossy made fragrant colfee, and this they 
had with strange German cakes, which were 
not half l)ad, and to which they both did 
ample justice. Going home, Nestie looked 
at Sparrow, and Sparrow looked at Nestie, 
and though no words passed it was under¬ 
stood that the days of the troubles of Moossy 
in the Seminary of iMuirtown were ended. 

During the remaining year of Moossy’s 
labours at the Seminary it would not l)e true 
to say that be became a good or useful 
master, for he had neither the knowledge 
nor the tact, or that the l)oys were always 
respectful and did their Avork, for they were 
very far removed from being angels ; but 
Moossy did pluck up some spirit, and 
Sparrow saw that he suffered no grievous 
wrong, lie also took care that Moossy was 
not left to be his own horse from day to day, 
but that the stronger varlets of the Seminary 
should take some exercise in the shafts of 
Moossy’s coach. Howieson was a young 
gentleman far removed from sentiment, and 
he gave it carefully to be understood that he 
only did the thing for a joke; but there is no 
question that more than once Jock brought 


IMoossy’s carriage, with Moossy’s Avife in it, 
successfully along that lane and other lanes, 
and it is a fact that, on a certain Saturday, 
S[)arrow came out Avith one of his father’s 
traps, and Mistress Moossy, as she was called, 
Avas driven far and Avide about the country 
around MuirtoAvn. 

“ You are what the papers call a ph-philan¬ 
thropist, Sparrow,” said Nestie, “and I 
expect to hear that you are opening an 
orphan asylinn.” And SparroAV promptly 
replied that, if he did, the first person to be 
admitted Avould be Nestie, and that he Avould 
teach him manners. 

It was a fortunate thing for Moossy that 
someone died in Germany and left him a 
little money, so tliat he could give up the 
hopeless drudgery of the Seminary and go 
home to live in a little house upon the banks 
of the Rhine. His wife, who had been 
improving under Di\ Manley’s care, began 
to brisk up at once, and Avas quite certain of 
recovery Avhen one afternoon they left 
IMuirtoAvn Station. Some dozen boys AA*ere 
there to see them off, and it Avas Jock and 
Sparrow avIio helped Moossy to place her 
comfortably in the carriage. The gang had 
pooled their pocket-money—selling one or 
two treasures to swell the sum—that Moossy 
and his wife might go aAvay laden Avith such 
dainties as schoolboys love, and Nestie had a 
bunch of flowers to place in her hands. They 
still called him Moossy, as they had done 
before, and he looked, to tell the truth, 
almost as shabby and his hair Avas as long as 
ever ; but he Avas in great spirits and much 
touched by the kindness of his tormentors. 
As the English mail pulled out of Muirtown 
Station Avith quickening speed, the boys ran 
along the platform beside the carriage, 
shaking hands Avith Moossy through the open 
AvindoAVS and passing in their gifts. 

“Take care o’ mices! ” shouted Jock, 
Avith agreeable humour, but the last sight 
IMoossy had of Muii’toAvn Avas Sparrow 
standing on a Inggage-barrow and Avaving 
farewell. 










SoineTiTOes tills ^ SoTOelimcs Ik at ; 


!^ll conditions I aim at. 



G 


licvefore,now 1 ll loVe no more, 


ut.asLclJlesS I KereTofore; 

MSny shrewd iisaslcrs rocl,'^^ who ruus ^ 


To ^ain Hcf iatora I sjoald. ^et 







































































































































’1111-: CHAIKiE OF TllK 21st LAXCFFS AT O^MDUTOIAX, SF.PTE^MBEli 2, 18118. Ey E. (’aton oodvilt.k, R.E 






A GROUP OF PRATTLE 

PAINTERS AND WAR ARTISTS. 

J]y liOBERT Machray. 


A S a nation we have not liitlierto been 
strong in military paintei’s, which 
is certainly a remarkable fact when 
we consider how full onr history is of 
heroic deeds and splendid feats of arms. 
Even the tremendous stmi^s^le whicli saw tlie 
rise and fall of Napoleon (lid not <j:i\'e ns any 
great battle-])ictnres, and it is not a little 
singular that almost the only painting of 
epoch-making Waterloo in onr public gal¬ 
leries—it hangs in South Kensington—is by 
the Fj’ench artist, Phillippoteanx. France, 
on the other hand, with her adoration of La 
(Jloire and her devotion to the Ai’niy, has 
found inspiring themes for several painters 
of the first rank in the stories of her wars. 
The walls of Versailles are covered with 
pictures of the achievements of her generals, 
and every art collection abounds in military 
subjects. One has only to recall the names 
of Aleissonier, Horace ATrnet, Dctaille, Yvon, 
and De Neuville, to say nothing of others, 
and a host of glorious canvases, dedicated 


201 


to the soldiers of 
France, spring 
instantly into 
the mind’s eye. 

It is just pos¬ 
sible that the 
indifference of 
Eritish painters 
to battle-scenes 
and military 
subjects generally Avill disappear in con- 
se(]uence of the importunate public demand 
that now manifests itself on all sides for 
])ictures dealing with the war in South 
Africa. Not that they have not been given 
their cue in such matters before. AAhis there 
ever a more popular painting than “The Roll 
Call,’’ by Lady Butler ? I shall probably be 
told that ait has nothing to do with popu- 
laritj, but, as tlie Americans say, “ Is that 
so ? ” Rather, it seems to me, does the 
universal desire, amounting to a positive 
craving, for pictorial commentaries on the 







THE HATTLE OF :\IA(iEKSFONTEIN : THE HIGHLANDERS SURPRISED IN CLOSE ORDER, liv .John H. Bacon. 

















A GROUP OF BATTLE PALNTERF AND WAR ARTISTS. 



doings of our Army in South Africa ])!)ir:t 
to the existence of a genuine instinct, not 
^yholly brutal, whicli onr ])aiiitcrs \yonld do 
well to satisfy. A nation of sliopkeepers, no 
doubt, we are ; but the man in tlie street, 
who perhaps serves behind a counter, none 
the less knows and feels with pride that he 
belongs to a conquering race. iVnd so he 
calls and clamonrs for tlie brnsli and pencil 
of the war artist to make real and vi\id 
presentments for him of the various aspects 
of the conflicts in which the figliting men of 
that race of Ids have been or are engaged. 

The pictorial press has never had any 
doubt about it. Since William Simpson 


2 ( 1:1 

same celerity and alacrity wliicli characterise 
the movements of ‘‘ Our Own War Corres¬ 
pondent.” The war artist is thoroughly 
well aware of the fact that his sketches will 
be looketl foi* cjuite as eagerly as, perhaps 
even more so than, those of his brother of 
the pen, for they bring home to thousands 
the incidents of warfare far more directly 
than any mere words can do, however 
eloquent or forceful the writing may be. 
Take ns on the whole—we are not a 
pai'ticularly imaginative people—and we like 
pictures, because they present us with some¬ 
thing tangible. They show us the actual; 
they realise things for us. 


sketched in the Crimea for the lUuUratpd 
London Nows (see our former article on “War 
Correspondents ” in the Wixnson for April), 
the work of war artists has been one of its 
most conspicuous and, at the same time, 
most acceptable features. No matter where 
flows the dark tide of war, there artist- 
specials are immediately despatched by those 
who direct our illustrated papers. Mr. 
Seppings AYright, himself a distinguished 
war artist, tells us how the imperative com¬ 
mand is issued from the “office ”—“ Go to 
the front ”—and within a few hours he is 
on board train or steamer, as the case may 
be, speeding to the scene of action with the 


It is hardly to be wondered at, then, if the 
interest in general which attaches to ])ictures, 
combined with the war in South x\frica and 
the Imperial spirit of the time in which we 
live, should lead to a great development 
amongst us with respect to the choice of 
military subjects by our painters—a develop¬ 
ment which is certain of wide appreciation. 

It goes without saying that a military 
painter must be perfectly familiar with the 
details of military life. It is perhaps not 
necessary that he should have participated in 
a campaign —Lady Butler is a notable proof 
to the contrary ; but to have been present in 
actions, to have shared in the emotions that 










264 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


attend on victory or defeat, to have taken 
part in the forced march and in the life of 
the camp, to have bivouacked in the rain or 
under clear, starry skies—in a word, to have 
seen the reality of war—must surely Hold its 
own inspirations. Meissonier was attached 
to the staff of Napoleon Ill. in the Italian 
war, and was frequently nnder lire. His 
first great ])attle-painting, “Tlie Battle of 
Solferino,” which is in the Luxembourg, is 
reminiscent of a day of fate of which he 
himself was a witness. Detaille was a soldier 
in the Franco-derman war, and we are told 
that the double sympathies of tlie patriot 


his canvas battle-scenes not actually observed 
with his own eyes. 

The position of an artist making sketches 
on the field of battle must be a trying and 
difficult one. He has to do his work often 
()n horseback or on camel-back, amidst a 
scene of confusion. He must not allow 
himself to be daunted or greatly disturbed. 
Al)Ove all, he must have a quick eye and a 
steady hand. He must be ready to seize 
[)oints of interest as they arise and to transfer 
them to his pa]_)er with all possible speed, 
therefore coolness and great dexterity must 
l)e his. Sometimes he may have time to 



AN INCIDKNT OF TIIF INDIAN FRONTIKIl i:lSIN(i OF 1897 : 

THE 2NI) PUNJAIi INFANTRY BREASTING THE KOTAL, 
By H. (\ Seppinjs uyight. 


THE RELIEF OF FORT GU LI STAN. 
SI RPORTEI) BY GURKHAS. 


and the artist were so strong that even on 
the field of battle he would drop his^ gun to 
take his pencil, and then, the sketch finished, 
take up his gun again. Several of our 
English battle painters have had experiences 
of war, and their art must surely gain from 
what they have seen. 

A distinction, however, must be drawn 
between battle painters and war artists. 
Every battle painter is in a sense a war 
artist, but not all war artists are battle 
painters. For the purpose of this article 1 
shall define the war artist as a “special,” 
who sends us pictures of incidents at the 
front, the battle painter as one who puts on 


finish his sketches, but we are all familiar 
with his work puldished in the rough, helped 
out by written notes, such as those sent by 
Mr. Melton Prior and others. More fre- 
([uently the rough sketches are worked up 
in black-and-white by artists at home whose 
services are specially retained by the illus¬ 
trated papers on account of their capacity 
for rendering adequately the real feeling, 
the veritable atmosphere, of war. ^ Several 
of the pictures accompanying this article 
belong to this class. They are the produc¬ 
tions of battle painters rather than of war 
artists. The battle painter, however, may or 
may not have any such notes to work from. 







A GIIOUP OF FATrLF PAIXTFRS AND WAR ARTISTS. 





CURSINt; THE infidel: an incident in the INDIAN FRONTIER RISIN(; OF 18!)7. RY S. REOC;. 


Prominent amongst onr battle painters 
stands Mr. R. Caton Woodville, R.I., one of 
a band of distinguished men who made their 
reputation first in tlie pictorial press. Rather 
more than a score of years ago, Oaton Wood- 
ville, a youth of twenty, submitted a drawing 
in black-and-white to the Illu^trffted London 
Xpics, and his connection with that journal 


has remained unbroken since. His father 
was an artist of distinction, whose paintings 
were exhibited at the Royal Academy ; his 
mother was a Russian. Aftei* his fatlier’s 
death, the boy and his mother went to 
Petersburg, then to rTermany, where, at 
Diisseldorf, young AYoodville studied art 
under E. you Gehhardt, a painter who had 






A COLUMN OF BRITT^SOUTH AFRICAN POLICIC ON THE MARCH TO MAFEKING THROUGH BECHUANALAND. 
^ By R. Caton 'Woodv^ili.e, R.I. 













‘ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF THEM”: THE HIGHLAND BRIGADE RE-FORMING AFTER THE BATTLE OF MAGERSFONTEIN. 

By R. Caton Woodville, R.L 







2G8 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


a predilection for religious subjects. Coming 
to London, he continued his studies. When 
he was just twenty, Hir William Ingram sent 
liiin to represent the Illustrated London Neics 
in the Servian war of 1878, and he also 
acted as war artist for the same journal in 
the Egyptian campaign of 1882. He has 
thus had abundant opportunities at first 
hand of seeing what war really is, and so it 
is no wonder that his paintings are full of 
actuality, of life and movement. 

On iMr. AYoodville’s return from the wars 
he began to paint large canvases devoted to 
military subjects, exliibitiiig in the Loyal 


his paintings and wash drawings is his 
wonderful success, his amazing skill, in 
expressing action. Take, for example, ‘'The 
Charge of the 21st Lancers at Omdurrnan,” 
which appears with this article. The whole 
scene, with its pell-mell of fighting, struggling 
Dervishes and Lancers, is instinct with life. 
The incident itself was one of the most 
stirring in the campaign of Kitchener against 
the Khalifa, and can hardly yet have faded 
from general recollection. The picture, which 
appeared in the lllusRuted London Netvs, 
was worked up fi*om a sketch made by an 
officer of the Seaforths. Another Egyptian 



now I.OIJI) UOHKKTS's SON WENT OIT TO SAVE THE GUNS AT GOI.ENSO 
J)raiv}i by Sidney Uayel from a skeirh by Kniet^l Prater. 


Academy first in 1871), and fame came to 
him almost at once. His picture of “ Saving 
the Guns at jMaiwand,*’ which was bought 
by the Corporation of Liverpool for the 
Walker Art Gallery, placed him at a bound 
in the front rank of military painters. Since 
then he has increased his reputation by 
such pictures as “ Kassassin,” “ Kandahar,” 
“1815” (his Waterloo picture), “The 
Storming of Badajoz, 1812,” and “ Bala¬ 
clava.” In addition to Ins paintings, 
Mr. Woodville has always done a large 
amount of black-and-white work, for the 
Illustrated London News in particular. To 
me, the most striking characteristic of both 


])ictnre by Mr. AVoodville is given on page 
271, “The Destruction of a Transport 
near Snakim,” in which may again be 
observed the same \'igour of movement. 
Two subjects derived from the war in South 
x\frica are presented as further examples 
of i\lr. Woodville’s work. One depicts “A 
Column of British South African Police on 
the March ” ; the other, “ All that was Left of 
Them,” a picture of mourufnl but heroic 
suggestion, which appeared in the Spear as 
a supplement, has for its theme the calling 
of the roll of the remnant of the Highland 
Brigade after the disastrous morning of 
Magersfontein. 













A KOUGH ROAD FOR THE GUNS. 
By John Ciiaulton. 





A GOOD SAMATilTAX UXDKIJ FIRE. 

“At the battle of Willow Gran<>-e an officer of the Tnij)orial Light Horse AV'ont into the open and rescued a 
badly wounded private and carried him into safety under a heavy fire.” 

An incident of the present Tj'ansvaal War depicted by Stanley A. Wu(kI. 




A (}RUIJP OF BATTLF PATNTERS AND WAR ARTISTS. 


271 


Another Honth Africa,ii ])ictin‘e, a line of 
Highlanders nnder lire, is that of Mr. flolio 
H. Bacon. The original of this first 
appeared in Black and Whitn a short time 
ago. Mr. Bacon lias had no experience of 
war itself, but his work, as shown in this 
and other sketches, is very effective. He 
has studied the liest French models, and 
readers of the Windsor will readily recall 
the striking illustrations by him which 
appeared in this magazine accompanying 
Mr. Guy Boothby’s serial, “ Pharos the 
Egyptian.” 

Mr. Wollen, an artist who has done a 
large amount of work for the illustrated 


page 21)4 shows some of the 2nd Punjab 
Infantry breasting the Kotal as they march 
on to the relief of Fort Gnlistan —an episode 
in the Indian Frontier rising of 1897. To 
the same time belongs Mr. 8. Begg’s re¬ 
markably effective “ Chirsing the Infidel,” 
the central fignue, that of a native nvtdlah or 
])rophet, being drawn with splendid verve. 
One of the grandest achievements of any 
war is portrayed by j\Ir. Sidney Paget {The 
Sph(re) in his fine picture, ‘‘ How liOrd 
Bolierts's Son Went Out to Save the Gims,” 
an evei-nieniorable incident of the effort to 
relieve Ladysmith. Mr. John Charlton, who 
is well known as the painter of several 



Till-: DKSTIirCTIOX OK A TKANSl’OllT NICAll SKAKIM : AN INCIDENT OK THE SOUDAN WAR OK 188.'). 

By R. Catoii Wuodville, R.L 


press, particnlarly in military snbjects, is 
represented here by “A Beview of the Scots 
Greys” and ‘‘A Sudden Attack.” In the 
latter a detachment of the Hampshire 
Infantry are seen re])elling an attack of 
Dacoits in Jhirma. Mr. Wollen has lately 
been in South iVfrica for the S/)hcrc. Mr. 
Seppings Wright, who has snccessfnlly com¬ 
bined in himself the functions of Avar 
correspondent and war artist, has seen 
several campaigns, bnt not the last. One 
campaign is enough, he thinks, to fnrnish 
forth a Avar artist Avith all the material he 
needs for liis battle-pictures—so he once 
confided to me. The wash drawing on 


militaiy ])ictnres, snch as “ Ulnndi ” and 
“ Tc4-el-Kebir,” and Avho painted tlie official 
picture of the Thanksgiving Service in front 
of St. Banl’s on the occasion of the Diamond 
Jubilee, called “God SaA^e the Qneen,” con¬ 
tributes to onr article an animated present¬ 
ment of artillerymen in the act of crossing a 
ford : it is chosen from the (Iraphir. Mr. 
Stanley Ij. AVood, aaJio is in his element in 
battle painting, is represented here by his 
spirited study of the rescue of a Avonnded 
soldier by a comrade, originally published in 
Black and Whito. Personally, hoAvever, I 
think Mr. AYood is at his best when he 
draws horses ; no one can beat him at that. 



A REVIEW OF THE SCOTS GREYS. Drawn ry W. B. Woi 



PRO PATRIA. 

By max PEMBERTON.^ 


lUiistrated hy A. Forestier. 


SYNOPSIS OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS. 


This story is related by Captain Alfred Hilliard, a young Englishman of considerable means and ffood social 
position, who IS spending some time on the Continent with his friend Fordham. At Pan, Hilliard became 
acquainted with a Colonel Lepeletier and promptly fell in love with his daughter. AVhcn the Lepeletiers returned 
to their home m Calais, Hilliard followed them ; but though he had every reason to believe that A^mes Lepeletier 
cared for him, his offer was positively declined by her father, no reason being assigned. At their house he met 
a man whom he had known, when a boy, as Robert Jelfery, but who was known as Sadi Alartel to the French 
household. Jeffery, alias Martel, had deteriorated with years, and was now a man Lnven to drink and 

iina/’rii nnlnna T-Tn T-7 ? 11 5../-I : i t _ l ” 



which proved to be a tunnel in course of construction beneath the Strait of Dover. Martel then accused Hiiiiard 
of being a spy and threatened imprisonment. On his calling Hilliard a liar, the Englishman struck him down 
senseless in the tunnel, and escaped himself with the greatest difficulty, only to find that an alarm had been raised 
and a search set on foot for him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A CHASSEUR RIDES FROM HAUT-BUISSON. 

^ car- 
^ riagecamc 
out of the 
shadows at a 
snail’s pace, as 
the distance 
made it, and 
took shape with 
exasperat i ng 
deliberation. I 
sat upon a low 
bank at the 
roadside and 
asked, if it were 
the carriage 
wliich Agnes 
drove, whence 
had it come, 
and whither was 
it going ? So 
weary was I 
with running 
that minutes passed before a memory of the 
day would serve me and recall to me, letter 
by letter, the words of the truth. It was the 
Paris road, I said at last. It could be no 
other. Agnes had delayed at Haut-Buisson 
and was returning iioav to Calais. Obstinate 
indifference to aught but fatigue kept me 

* Copyright, 1900, by Max Pemberton, in the United 
States of America. 


there upon the bank to laugh at prudence. 
I had run away, as I thought, from that 
very path to end by stumbling upon it 
blindly. There was no more dangerous 
place for me in all France that night. AThy, 
twenty messengers must already have 
patrolled that very ground in search of the 
fugitive. And he could calmly sit upon a 
bank and wait for the twenty-first messenger 
who certainly would come. ^ But fatigue was 
the master, overpowering, numbing fatigue, 
Avhich forbade even the common use of 
reason and chained the limbs to the ground 
as with fetters of lead. 

A full golden moon of summer shone 
down upon the road and set it as a A^ein of 
silver, Avhite and clear, even among the 
shimmering wheat and the darker pasture 
land. I could make out the phaeton, for such 
it appeared to be, outstanding in the clear light 
and coming toAvard me with a beggarly slow¬ 
ness AAdiich seemed a mock upon my sore-tried 
patience. Never once did my eyes leaA^e it, 
from the moment it came out of the darkness 
by Haut-Buisson and began to cross the 
open country toAvard Calais. It Avas the 
phaeton AAdiich Agnes drove. I Avas sure of 
it now. And I kneAv that she must pass the 
place whereby I rested—kneAV that I must 
see her, must speak to her, must tell her. 

A horseman rode out of the shadoAA-s and 
drew near the craiAding phaeton. DoAvn 
there upon the Avhite road, he looked like 
some toy soldier playing upon a child’s 
273 u 











274 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Held. I counted the seconds while he reined 
in to hail the carriage, and then, again, the 
minutes as he galloped on for Calais and the 
gate. Soon the thud of hoofs upon the road 
became as the distant beating of a drum ; 
and I, who had watched him with indiffer¬ 
ence, turned in a fit of panic and scrambled 
down the bank to the edge of the dyke that 
skirted it. There had been no moment since 
the beginning of it when my heart beat as it 
beat to that music of the hoofs. He could 
not pass me by, I said. The lights of 
England shone more distantly at the thought. 
Lying there, I might not see the Foreland, 
my beacon beyond the horizon of stars. 
The distant road, the phaeton, the lamps of 
Calais—they were shut from my eyes as by a 
curtain ; and lying close to the earth, in 
the foolish thought that it might shield me, 
I listened to the sounds as minute by minute 
they magnified. The man was halting then 
—was drawing rein. I lay closer still to the 
earth and waited for the end. 

These instants of peril, how real they are 
to us when fear is tuned to their note, and all 
the reality has gripped our nerves, and we 
may not know from one beat of a pendulum 
to the next what our to-morrow will be ! 
Twenty times as the horseman drew near 
me I believed that he had seen me, was riding 
to the place, was crying to me to surrender. 
Closer still and closer to the earth I lay, to 
drive the figure of my imagination from me, 
but it would not be moved. At last I shut 
my eyes, my ears, would neither think nor 
listen. If this were the hour, so let it be. 
I had done my best. 

The shadow draws near, it touches us, it 
passes. AYe rise up to laugh at it and to 
forget why we were so afraid. This view, 
at least, is within my own experience. AA^hen 
next I looked up from my hiding-place by 
the dykes, the stars were shining gloriously 
in the unclouded heaven above. Once more 
the Foreland beckoned me ; from the road 
itself there came but the muted sound of 
labouring wheels. How grotesque all that I 
had done and said seemed in that moment ! 
Of course the trooper did not . see me. He 
would have something else to do than to 
search every bank he passed or to draw rein 
at every bush. I had acted like some woman 
frightened suddenly. And now.I could laugli 
at myself—if, indeed, there were not a graver 
occupation. For tlie phaeton liad breasted 
the liillside by this time. I ran towards it 
and held up my hand. 

“ Mademoiselle Agnes, are you going to 
run me down ? ” 


She reined the ponies back upon their 
1 launches. I could see her pretty eyes open 
wide at my predicament. And little wonder. 
Never again upon that Paris road Avill she 
meet a man sinotliered in dust and grime, 
liis boots white with tlie chalk of the cliffs, 
the mud thick upon his cape, his manner 
that of one who scarcely knew what he did 
or what lie wished to do. Such a picture of 
myself I may not deny. 

“ Captain Alfred ! ” she cried at last, as 
though escaping the spell of astonishment. 

“ But—but where is your carriage ? ” 

I tried to answer her collectedly, but failed 
grotesquely in the effort. 

‘‘You must have passed it at Escalles—my 
man Bell is waiting for me there. I have 
been to the works. Your friend Martel 
persuaded me to go there and then tried 
to arrest me. 4 knocked him down and 
escaped by the beach. That’s my story, 
Agnes.” 

Excitement dro^'e the words as a torrent. 

I spoke in English and had not the remotest 
idea of what I said. She heard me with 
pitiful eyes and a little low cry. 

“ Oh, my God ! it is you, then, whom they 
follow.” 

“No doubt of it. The fellow who just 
rode by could have thrown a biscuit at me. 
I suppose there will be others. AA^hat am I 
to do, x\gnes ? ” 

The man asking the woman for help ! 
Judge me as you will, I seemed then to have 
lost all power to think or act for myself. 
Instinct of sympathy drew me tenderly 
toward this gentle girl, as though we two 
had been cast out by Destiny to that lonely 
road, there to battle for our happiness, our 
future, our lives. “ AYhat am I to do, 
Agnes ? ” The pity of that question wrung 
my very heart. 

She listened in silence. I know now that 
the wise little head was full of a hundred 
plans. But the night had robbed her of her 
girlhood. She would never think and act 
again as she had thought and acted before 
she heard my story. 

“ You must go away from Calais,” she said 
slowly ; “ you must go away to-night.” 

I laughed a little ironically even at her. 
Fear can make our selfishness brutal some¬ 
times. 

“ That’s easy enough. Tell Jacques to 
call a balloon and I will float to Charing 
Cross. Don’t you see that I have no chance ? 
They will watch, every gate, every train, every 
steamer. How can I go away ? ” 

She would not hear me. 



I lay closer still to the earth and waited for the end." 









27G 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


“ We must think, think,” she said quietly. 
“Let Jacques go back to Escalles to tell your 
man. They must not question him.” 

“ Of course they must not. Let him tell 
Bell to wait for me at the Meurice.” 

“ Your own hotel ? ” 

Her quicker wisdom aroused my own. 

“ No,” I said, for the idea came swiftly, 
“ let him go on the road to Boulogne.” 

She spoke a few words, with a composure 
that astonished me, to Jacques, her groom, 
and he descended from the phaeton and 
began to run toward Escalles. When he was 
gone slie drew the apron back and made a 
place for me beside her. I entered the 
carriage unprotestingly. The antidote that 
I sought to my own heavy fatigue was 
here, sent by my Destiny, upon the Paris 
road. 

“ Agnes,” I exclaimed abruptly, “ why do 
you say that I should leave Calais ? ” 

“ I say it for my father’s sake. You will 
carry his good name to England and it will 
be in safe keeping. He has many enemies 
here. Sadi Martel is one of them. That is 
why he took you to the forts.” 

“ Forts—the works at Escalles are forts, 
then ? ” 

She looked up at me with wondering eyes. 

“ What else should I call them—the har¬ 
bour-forts and the coal-mines ? ” 

I did not answer her, but I thanked God 
for the words. The woman that I loved 
knew nothing, then. 

“ Let us understand it all, Agnes. Martel 
does not like your father, but how do I help 
him ? ” 

“ By going to the works. He Avill say that 
you are here, in Calais, with my father’s 
sanction. If you did not leave to-night, they 
would arrest you to-morrow. You will go 
because I ask it of you.” 

“ Show me a way, and I will sail by the 
first steamer. Don’t you see that it is all 
impossible ? They will arrest me at the first 
gate we pass. Of course they will. What’s 
the good of deceiving ourselves ? ” 

It was a despairing, pitiful confession 
enough, but a woman’s braver heart gave 
me absolution. The answer was a touch 
upon my arm and a pretty word of the old 
manner. 

“ We shall not pass the first gate. Captain 
Alfred. We shall go in by the Porte de St. 
Omer.” 

“ But that’s on the east side.” 

“It was yesterday-” 

“ Explain, little guide, I am like a child 
to-night.” 


“ The blind lead the blind round the town 
of Calais. There is Fort Nieulay. The 
chcmeiir who passed us will be waiting for 
you there.” 

“ I imderstand that. He will wait at the 
Porte St. Pierre-” 

“ And we shall avoid the Porte St. Pierre. 
That is why I sent Jacques to Escalles. 
They cannot question him.” 

Her prescience amazed me. I sat back in 
the phaeton and wondered at the ingratitude 
of my unbelief. For in my heart of hearts 
I said that a miracle alone could save me 
from the soldiers of France that night. 

“ Oh ! ” I cried at last desperately, “ if I 
conld believe in anything at all but the 
chasseur at Porte St. Pierre ! Of course the 
man will stop us. He Avill send to every 
gate in Calais and search every carriage.” 

Her calmness was amazing. 

“ Not Colonel Lepeletier’s carriage,” she 
said quietly. 

“ Perhaps not; but you cannot hide five- 
foot-eleven in the moonlight, Agnes.” 

“AVe shall not try. AYe shall put five- 
foot-eleven under the hood. I thought of 
it at once. Tlie road to St. Omer is over 
there by the cottage. AA^e will open the 
hood before we turn. AA^hen you are in 
Calais you must send to Mr. Fordham and 
lie will help you. I will go to him myself, 
for they would be waiting for you at the 
hotel. To-morrow you write to me from 
England.” 

“ Every day—it would not be a day if I 
forgot. YYu wish that, Agnes ? ” 

We were at tlie turn of the road by this 
time, and she reined her ponies in. The 
new note we had struck troubled her. She 
sat very still and thoughtful. 

“I wish your happiness,” she said at 
length, as one speaking in a reverie. I read 
her doubt of it in the words. 

Long minutes passed before we spoke 
again. Above all the confusion and clamour 
of that night her presence was as some call 
to courage and recollection. I could think 
more clearly, act more resolutely now than 
at any moment from the beginning.of it; 
and I seemed to realise that she and I, the 
little, bright-eyed girl and the man who loved 
her beyond all that life could give him, were 
battling for their happiness there, two miles 
from Calais, upon the Paris road. 

There is a cart-road across the fallow, a 
little way from Fort Nieulay, and three miles, 
it may be, from the western gate of the town. 
I had passed it many a time wlien my auto¬ 
mobile rushed on to Boulogne, but thought 




FRO PATRIA. 




it no more than a farmer’s drive to an old 
white house upstanding above the sand-dunes 
which are Calais’s ramparts. Now, however, 
we turned the ponies to this track and began 
to follow it quickly. I judged that it would 
bring us round to tlie southern gate, and so 
to the Porte St. Omer and the Dunkerque 
road ; and this conclusion was justified 
presently, when the lights of the ships dis¬ 
appeared from our view, and even the harbour 
beacon became but a loom of iridescence in 
the sky. Every yard we drove now was a 
new landmark of our safety. The shadows 


of the uidighted road enveloped us so that 
any horseman riding yonder toward the fort 
would need a hawk’s eye to discover us. 
And there Avas always the hood ! I began 
to tell myself that my little guide had reason, 
after all. 

“x4gnes,” I said at length, “I must see 
your father to-night.” 

She became A'ery grave at the Avords and 
for a little Avhile afterwards was silent. 

“ Why should you see my father ? ” 

“To convince liim of my honesty.” 

“ lias he doubted it. Captain Alfred ” 








278 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


‘‘ At least, he will hear Martel’s story. I 
owe it to you that he shall hear mine.” 

“ He will hear it from me. If you would 
help Sadi Martel, you will go to our liouse 
to-night.” 

“ But the others will be there.” 

“ For the news of your arrest, yes. That 
is why Sadi Martel went yesterday. My father 
l)elieves in your honour as he believes in his 


own. I shall tell him why you left Calais to¬ 
night.” 

“ If I leave it. That depends upon 
Martel, does it not ? There is a steamer, of 
course ; but others are not likely to forget 
the fact.” 

She would not hear such a gloomy story 

“ Mr. Fordham will help you,” she said 
quickly. “ If you wait for him by the Jardin 
Richelieu, I will drive myself to the hotel and 
send him. Is prudence so difficult a thing ?” 

She laid a little gloved hand upon my arm 
and I took it in my own. It ^yas pretty to 
hear her talk of prudence, this very child 


guiding the hunted man. And I said that 
the hour was odd beyond belief—the hour 
which told me that I must leave France for 
my country’s sake at a moment wdien all my 
hope of life was there in the town of Calais. 
For we were approaching the St. Omer gate 
now. I could hear the screech of railway 
whistles, the deeper sirens of the packet- 
boats, the faint murmur of activity at the 
railway-stations and the docks. 
But the road itself was deserted. 
A watchdog baying in a lonely 
house was the only herald of 
our approach. 

“Captain Alfred ! ” she ex¬ 
claimed presently, “ when you 
are in England you will remem¬ 
ber your friends in Calais ? ” 

“ There is nothing on earth 
that could make me forget 

them. ” 

“ Then I shall know that my 
father’s honour is in safe keep¬ 
ing.” 

I had feared this from the be¬ 
ginning—had feared it greatly: 
but the reason of my fear I did 
not dare to confess. 

“ If there is one man in 
France I would sooner • serve 
than another,” I said quickly, 
“ it is Colonel Lepeletier. But 
I am a soldier. I must do my 
duty. I am going to England 
for that.” 

“ I pray God that your duty 
will not wound my father,” she 
answered. 

It was my prayer, too ; but 

then, in all the excitement of 
the night, and of what the 
night might mean, I would not 
think of it, Avould not ask 
myself the questions which to- 
morroAV Avould bring. Yague 

ideas, shadows of thought, half-formed reso¬ 
lutions raced through my brain, to leave me 
without purpose or decision. The gate of 
Calais was the one concrete fact. I must 
pass the gate. 

We had raised the hood of the phaeton a 
quarter of a mile from the Porte St. Omer, 
and now, as w^e approached the barrier, the 
ponies lifted their feet at a touch of the whip 
and carried us at a fast trot to the octroi and 
the guards there. For my part, I did not 
believe it possible that any carriage might 
pass that gate unchallenged, and I sat, far 
back among the cushions, with eyes half 







PRO PATRIA, 


279 


closed and nerves twitching, and all tlie 
tension of the doubt upon me. We could 
not pass—the notion was preposterous. I 
would have staked half my fortune upon the 
certainty of the challenge and that which 
must follow the challenge. When I heard a 
cheery “ Bon soir, mademoiselle^"" from the 
keeper of the barrier, it seemed as some jest 
to herald that discovery. The man was peer¬ 
ing below the hood, I said. I could see his 
lantern, as the light of it danced from the 
road to the windows of liis little house, or fell 
upon the brass of the harness, or glistened a 
moment on the very splash-board before us. 
He must know that I was there. And then 
—a miracle for laughter—we went on again. 
I heard Agnes telling me that the danger was 
past. 

Ah, little guide, could you have looked out 
that night at the darker road of life before us 
both, with what heavy steps should we have 
set out upon it! 


CHAPTER X. 

THE LONELY STEEET. 

The miracle, indeed, had happened, and, if 
you come to think of it, but a poor miracle, 
after all. When I look back to that night, 
the marvel is that I should have driven to 
the western gate with so poor a heart and 
such pitiful unbelief. For which of them, 
if it were not Martel, would have sought 
their man in a phaeton from the Dunkerque 
Road, and that phaeton driven by Colonel 
Lepeletier’s daughter ? And what servant of 
the barrier would have found the courage 
thus to insult the commander of the garri¬ 
son ? A child’s fear ! I grant it; but it 
was very real to me. 

The barrier was behind us, in truth ; the 
broad Rue Victor Hugo before us. Never¬ 
theless, it needed no spur upon the memory 
to tell me that even here we were still at the 
beginning of it. How to get out of the 
town of Calais, now that I was in it, I knew 
no more than the dead. There was, I ad¬ 
mit, still with me that perturbation of mind, 
that inertia of will and excitement of 
thought which could shut out any realisation 
of the more momentous truths, and leave me 
with but one desire, one unchanged purpose. 
Minute by minute, as we drove on toward 
the Jardin Richelieu, this idea of flight 
began to possess me to the exclusion of all 
else. No plan there was in my head, no 
sure determination of means, but only the 
will to escape the town and the shore if I 


might, and to carry my momentous secret to 
England. I would not hear that other voice 
of argument which said, “ Delusion, delusion ! 
you have seen but a coal-shaft, after all.” A 
true instinct kept me to the path of duty. 

Such arguments, such hopes, I say, carried 
me in silence to the shadows of the Jardin 
Richelieu, where, for the last time, Agnes 
reined her ponies back, and I knew that I 
must say “Good-bye” to her. Until this 
moment, perhaps, I was but half conscious 
of all that she had done for me ; blind, it 
may be, to the unselfish courage of her girl¬ 
hood, unable to see that night’s work as she 
saw it from the fii-st. But in the instant of 
parting there came a repentance as swift as it 
was sure. I stood there to tell myself that 
1 might never look upon her face again, 
might have touched her hand for the last 
time, might be uttering the last word I 
should ever speak to her. And God knows 
what that minute cost me. 

“Agnes,” I said, “we shall never forget 
to-night.” 

“ Never, never,” she faltered. 

“It is only au revoir. Next week, next 
month, I shall come to Calais again.” 

The promise did not deceive her. 

“ They will never let you do that.” 

“ Then you will come to me—to my Ene:- 
land?” 

She hid her face from me and I could 
hear her sobbing. The niglit had unnerved 
her. Farewell was making cowards of us 
both. And the moments might be precious 
beyond understanding. 

“ You will save my father’s honour ? ” she 
cried, turning to me again and lifting a 
tear-stained face to mine. 

“ His name shall be as that of my own 
father.” 

“ I will ask nothing more. In England 
you will remember, as I shall remember in 
France.” 

“ If the year passes by and you do not 
see me, mignonne, there will be no longer an 
Alfred Hilliard to forget.” 

She drew my face down to hers at the 
word, as though to forbid an omen ; and, 
quickly remembering where we stood, she 
kissed my lips and so said farewell. 

“God guard you always.” 

“ And you, little Agnes—ah, little Agnes 
to me until my life’s end.” 

The carriage was away and in the shadows 
again while our words still echoed in the 
lonely street. I knew then that I had said 
“ Farewell ” to her, and it was as though 
some great impulse of my being had been 



280 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


carried away to the light and the voices 
beyond the darkness. All about me the 
stillness of night reigned already in that 
dreary town. I heard the church bells 
striking the hour of nine, and the notes 
seemed to float above the houses musically, 
as above some abode of sleep and rest. But 
I was alone by the garden, and the step of a 
sergent tU vUIp, who patrolled the neigh¬ 
bouring street, fell as the rhythm of a pen¬ 
dulum beating, so regular, so distinct it was. 
Would he come to me ? would he question 
me ? could I answer him ? What story 
should I tell if any stopped me ? Was 
Harry Fordham at the hotel, or had he 
delayed at Dunkerque ? I believe that I 
prayed for Harry’s coming. Never had I 
known him resourceless or empty-headed as 
I was then. He would find a way—the 
readiest man I have ever known. 

A quarter of an hour passed, I think, 
before he came, striding along the street as 
some strong man upon a pressing business. 
I had told myself, twenty times already, 
that he would never come, was not in Calais, 
might even be prevented by those who were 
waiting for me at the hotel. Every shadow' 
by the gardens had been magnified until 
it became the figure of a spy. I imagined 
myself the victim of a hue and cry which a 
nation had raised—saw myself hemmed in 
on every side, described, hunted, maligned. 
And here w'as Harry, pipe in mouth, his 
“ solemn black ” as negligent as ever, his 
greeting as hearty, his hand’s grip as sure. 
I could have kissed him on both cheeks 
for the very joy of it. 

“ Harry—you ! ” 

He stared at me in bew'ilderment that w^as 
beautiful to see—up and dowm, up and down, 
as though his eyes w^ould never have enough 
of it. 

“ Son of my fathers, but you’re a perfect 
spectacle. Where, in Heaven’s name, man, 
did you decorate yourself ? ” 

I stopped him at the first w'ord of it. 

“In the Government works at Escalles. 
Jeffery asked me to see the forts. I never 
thought about it and follow^ed him. He 
tried to arrest me as a spy and T knocked 
him dow'ii. That’s w'hy I’m here.” 

It takes a good deal to surprise Harry 
Fordham ; but if ever he w^as startled in his 
life, I should name that as the occasion. 
Twice must I repeat the story before he 
could make head or tail of it. And under¬ 
stand, of the greater secret, of that which I 
did not dare to think or speak, he had not a 
word. 


“ Alfred, my son,” he said at last, “ it is 
plain that the air of Calais is not good for 
your constitution. You had better leave, 
my boy, by the first boat.” 

“ Where the police wdll be w'aiting for 
me.” 

He linked his arm in mine and began to 
walk up and down the pavement by the 
garden. The pipe glow'ed as a furnace. It 
seemed to share the fire of his thoughts. 

“ Let me get to the bottom of it,” he 
continued as w'e went. “ You were trapped 
into the forts and saw the things wdiich you 
ought not to have seen. Very w'ell, so far 
you acted like a schoolgirl miss ; but we 
wdll not gibbet you for that. The French¬ 
man, on the other hand, would like to gibbet 
you, and it w'ill annoy him wLen he cannot. 
Good, twice good. I am pleased to annoy 
all the Frenchmen I can, not loving the 
family. Your friend, Lepeletier, wLo is a 
very nice Frenchman, is also a gentleman. 
We will not annoy him, because we like him, 
and the best w'ay not to annoy him is to make 
ourselves scarce. Ergo, Ave leave Calais 
to-night by the first boat-” 

“ As easy as striking a match. The police 
on the boat count for nothing. They w^on’t 
lift a hand to prevent us—of course not. It’s 
a W'ay they have in Calais.” 

He stopped a moment to light the pipe 
again and to permit a pedestrian to pass us. 
There w'as upon his face an amused smile, as 
though he would not, even yet, understand 
the moment of it; but I knew' that this was 
not the case, and my ow'ii impatience 
appeared to jog elbow's wdth right-dow'ii 
cow^ardice. 

“ If you want to show me a straight Avay 
to the lock-up, take me to the steamer,” I 
continued savagely ; “ even a child Avould 
know that. What’s the good of shutting 
our eyes ? The police w^on’t shut theirs.” 

He Avas incorrigible, Harry, that night. 

“ Is the first boat necessarily a steamer, 
my son ? ” he asked presently. “ Have you 
never seen any other boats in Calais Harbour 
but packet-boats ? And let me put another. 
How do you knoAv that the police are at all 
interested ? If the man you knocked doAvn 
is better of his hurt, I admit the danger. 
But do you knoAv that he is ? I don’t, and 
I Avill believe Avhen I do. As for the 
Meurice, you Avill find Franyois, the Avaiter, 
keeping a lonely Augil in the coffee-room 
because you are not there. We will return 
at once to dry up his tears. He Avill under¬ 
stand our boyish desire to cut capers at the 
Casino. Adions, done, we will go to the 



PRO PATRIA. 


281 



“ ‘ Harry—you I ’ ” 

Meurice. This is just a fool’s rendezvous, 
anyway.” 

He dragged me on with a strong arm, 
smoking the wliile as for his very life. To 
me it seemed that we were walking straight 
to the gates of the citadel prison ; but the 
courage of the man was as irresistible as his 
logic ; and I went with him by the Hotel de 
Guise, by the theatre—to the Meurice itself, 
where arrest was sure. 

‘‘ Harry,” I said at the very door, “ to¬ 
morrow you will be at the Consulate 
demanding my release.” 

He knocked the ashes from his pipe and 
laughed drily. 

“ Bosh! ” he said. “ To-morrow you will be 
on your way to Cottesbrook. Tell Lady 
Hilliard from me that her son has amused 
the Frenchmen very well, and that Harry 
Fordham is protesting against Popery in a 


check suit and a wideawake. 
If the new curate continues 
to preach for thirty minutes, 
I am coming home again for 
the honour of the village. 
Now, my brother, your best 
leg forward—and don’t mind 
the chalk on your boots.” 

He marched straight into 
the hotel, head erect, eyes 
watchful ; and I followed 
him, this strong, sane man 
who had gauged that situa¬ 
tion with an unerring instinct 
for the truth. When, in the 
precincts of the hall, no one 
stepped out of the shadows 
to cry, “ Plait, there ! ” it 
seemed to me that some 
personal magnetism of the 
man was keeping the figures 
in the darkness. What of 
the chasseur rvho had ridden 
to the Porte St. Pierre, of 
the alarm I had heard at the 
workings, of Jeffery lying 
senseless in the tunnel ? All 
these meant nothing, then ? 
Or was Harry right, after all, 
and had Jeffery, recovering 
consciousness, been unable 
to tell them a coherent 
story ? I dared to hope that 
this was so. The very 
civilities of those in the 
Meurice justified the assump¬ 
tion. Not a gesture of 
welcome or attention was 
changed. Francois, the butler, 
stood there as though to say, “ Command 
me, and I will die for you, at a price.” 
The chambermaids raced to bring me 
hot water. Harry was a hundred times 
justified. 

“Now,” he said, when we were in his 
bedroom together, “ be sensible and believe. 
Calais is not at all interested in your move¬ 
ments ; she is interested only in your purse. 
What she may be in half an hour’s time I do 
not pretend to say, for in half an hour’s 
time you will be on the sea. I am going 
fishing, sir, fishing on the deep blue ocean. 

You are coming, too, my brother-” 

I stared at him open-mouthed. “ Fishing ? 
Good Heavens, what a man ! ” 

He continued in his bantering mood. 
“ Fishing, as I say. Your comments are not 
reverent. Sir Alfred. The urgency of the 
moment forbids a proper penance, but you 




282 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


have just got to bustle. Come, now, into 
your dress-clothes, quick ! ” 

I think that I regarded him as I should 
have regarded any maniac out of Bedlam 
who had come there to help me. He laughed 
at my protests and opened the door that I 
might cross the landing to my own bedroom. 

“ Five minutes,” he said ; “ I give you five 
minutes. The police may be here in 
ten-” 

“ But if they come before ? ” 

“ Well, they trump our ace.” 

He was playing a great game, nothing 
more. I said as much as I threw aside my 


muddy clothes and dressed myself with 
trembling fingers. The police might knock 
upon the door at any minute. He counted 
upon the delay, upon the supposition that 
Jeffery had given no coherent account of his 
mishap or of me. If this failed him—well, 
the alternative was the prison of the citadel ; 
and more—for there was that of which I 
would not think, my own hallucination, the 
nightmare I had lived through in the tunnel 
of Escalles. When I remembered this, I 
could start at any sound upon the landing. 
The chambermaid’s knock sent my heart 
leaping. AVhere would it end ? I said it 
was but beginning. 


Five minutes he had given me in which to 
dress, but three of them were left yet, when 
he came in my room and began to show less 
imperturbability than he had yet done. Even 
he was anxious, then ! I had imagined as 
much. 

“Well,” he said, “does the tie set 
straight ? ” 

“ As straight as it will set to-night.” 

“ Good ; then we will go. Your fur coat, 
if you please, young gentleman. It will be 
cold at sea.” 

“ Harry,” I exclaimed almost angrily, 
“ why do you harp upon that nonsense ? ” 

“ I will tell you when 
we are outside. Mean¬ 
while I am in command. 
You will obey me im¬ 
plicitly.” 

“ I am doing so, it 
appears—acting like a 
fool to amuse you.” 

He ignored the petu¬ 
lant temper. 

“ Come,” he continued, 
laying a hand upon my 
arm in a kindly gesture, 
“is it not serious enough, 
old fellow ? Do not 
make it more so.” 

“ I am trying not to.” 
“ I hope so. Let us 
go down now. At the 
hurecm you will ask 
what time the Casino 
closes.” 

I began to understand. 
This clever head was 
playing a master hand. 

“ They will think that 
we have gone there.” 

“ If they are right- 
minded people, they 
will.” 

“ AYhile we-” 

“ Are going fishing.” 

He threw open the door at the words and 
descended the stairs as though the whole 
place belonged to him. At the bureau he 
stopped and waited for me to tell my story. 
I remember that I repeated the words as a 
schoolboy repeats a verse of poetry, without 
any right sense of phrase or meaning. 
“ What time did the Casino close ? ” The 
man said, “ Half-past ten, monsieur.” I 
thanked him and, linking my arm in Harry’s, 
went out toward the sea. 

The night had fallen clear and calm after 
the rain. There were few abroad, but at the 














PRO PATRIA. 


288 


corner of the Eue du Eampart a chasseur-a- 
cheval passed us at a canter. I knew that he 
was riding to the Meurice with news of 
me, and that we had escaped him by two 
minutes. 


CHAPTEE XI. 

OLD BORDENAVE. 

We stood until the horseman had turned the 
corner of the Eue du Havre, and then went 
on with quickened steps towards the light¬ 
house and the railway. Neither of us spoke, 
for the story behind us needed no words. 
But Harry’s lengthening stride betrayed 
him. I knew now that he feared for me as I 
had feared for myself in the hotel. 

Through the railway gates, by the wharves, 
straight on to the quay of the inner harbour, 
we went doggedly, silently, at a walk which 
threatened soon to become a run. Never 
once did Harry pause now or look behind 
him ; no word of explanation did he vouch¬ 
safe. Straight as a line he went to the 
harbour quay and the fishing fleet there, and 
I followed him without protest or comment. 
The figure of the chasseur loomed always in 
the mists behind me. I could indicate no 
better direction than that which carried us 
away from the shadows. 

AVe crossed the quay, I say, and came to 
one of the long ladders by which you descend 
to the water and the boats. The tide had 
been making headway since I quitted the 
beach by Blanc-Nez, and now it rushed and 
swirled about the huddled fishing-boats 
which were here preparing for their long 
night’s work. In the instant of waiting at 
the ladder’s head I remembered that Harry 
had often fished with old Jules Bordenave, 
the owner of five good smacks in Calais, and 
that there was no valid reason why he should 
not fish once more that night. To think 
that I had been unable to see, as it were, a 
yard before my nose, where this idea was 
hatched ! And now it appeared so simple a 
thing that I saw it as in a flash—I would 
not ask a single question. 

AA^'e descended the ladder, and, crossing a 
couple of smacks that lay warped close to the 
quay, we found old Jules Bordenave’s boat 
the third from the ladder—a trim ship, 
lugger-rigged, as all the Frenchmen are, and 
ready, it appeared, for the night’s work 
before her. There was no living thing on 
deck save a mangy dog which came up and 
licked our hands fawningly ; but Harry went 
straight to the cuddy aft, and diving down 


the wretched companion he dragged me after 
him to as close and stinking a hole as ever I 
have put my nose in since I was born. 

“ Bon soir, Bordenave. AY’e are here, you 
see.” 

The fat fisherman, the very relic of a man, 
grimy, salted, broad-faced, struggled to his 
feet, and cuffing a lazy, barefooted lad who 
sprawled upon a bench, he made room for 
us and said something very quickly. I 
could not follow all of it, but Harry inter¬ 
preted. 

“ This is old Bordenave,” he exclaimed by 
way of introduction. “ He’d sell his soul for 
threepence-halfpenny. Say something about 
fishing. Lucky, wasn’t it ? He sent word 
round to the hotel to-day askipg me to 
come.” 

I nodded my head and stammered a few 
words which seemed to amuse old Bordenave 
very much. Harry had fished with him 
often before. Our visit was no surprise—if 
my clothes were. 

“ Monsieur was going to the Casino, but 
he changed his mind,” Harry rattled on 
boisterously. “ All Englishmen like to change 
their minds; it pleases them. AVe’ll show 
him something better than dancing, eh, 
Bordenave ? ” 

Bordenave smiled like a child at the 
mention of the Casino. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, “ that costs dear, la-bas, 
the dancing. You will not catch any big 
fish there, monsieur. They are all thieves 
—they steal the corks out of all the bottles 
they can see. You are right to follow the 
Abbe Fordham. You shall dance because 
you are so well to-morrow.” 

“And give you twenty francs to drink 
that same health,” interposed Harry. “ AA"ell, 
we are quite ready, Bordenave, if you can go 
now.” 

“At your service, monsieur. We shall have 
the water in ten minutes. There is plenty 
outside. A fresh night, messieurs, with a 
falling breeze. Will it be for long ? ” 

“ A good sail, Bordenave. Make Dover 
if you can. But you can’t, of course you 
can’t. I’ve bet my friend twenty louis you 
could. A hundred francs if you do.” 

Old Bordenave stiffened up at the words. 

“Not make Dover ? Oh, we shall see, 
monsieur, we shall see. A hundred francs, 
you said ? ” 

“ And I’ll give you another hundred, 
Bordenave,” I interposed, in a jargon which 
was wonderful. “Not a word to any of 
your friends la-hauf, if they come asking 
after us. It’s a wager, you know.” 



284 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


The old fellow waited for no more, but 
went up the companion as though a spear- 
point drove him. Two hundred francs! 
You must catch a lot of fish to make two 
hundred francs. If anything saved us that 
night, it would be greed, I said. But 
we were one-and-twenty miles from safety 
still, and if I live a thousand years I shall 
never hunger for a sight of the cliffs of 
Dover as I hungered for them in those 
moments of delay. For we were alone then, 
Harry and I, in the stinking cabin. A dirty 
lamp cast a wan jet of light upon our pale 
faces; it seemed to mock our odd attire. 
Each knew of what the other thought; no 
question was put or answered. The chasseur 
who had ridden to the Meurice, what was 
his occupation ? Dancing at the Casino, 
perhaps. Desperation of thought is akin to 
farce ; you tell yourself any nonsense when 
you are really afraid. 

“ Harry,” I said, when old Bordenave had 
gone up, “ it’s ten to one we are boarded.” 

He took out his pipe and began to fill it. 

“ The Cloth doesn’t bet,” he said, “ or I’d 
lay twenty. There was once a parson at 
Derby who saw two dogs fighting in the 
aisle of his church. He was one of the old 
sporting kind. When he had rebuked his 
flock for the attention they paid to the dogs, 
and found they wouldn’t listen to him, he 
said, ‘ Well, my brethren, if you won’t have 
the Gospel, I’ll lay two to one on the 
black ! ’ The good old times are gone, my 
brother. I have even had a dear old soul 
threaten to write to my bishop because I 
play golf. She said that I was heard to say, 
‘Damme one.’ What I really said was 
‘ Dormy one.’ There is a considerable 
difference from an ecclesiastical standpoint.” 

He lit his pipe and went rambling on 
again—stories, jests, any flippant talk to keep 
my thoughts from the quay above and those 
who might appear upon the quay presently. 
And just as I understood those surpassing 
minutes of delay, so did he understand them. 
To be caught there in the cabin of old 
Bordenave’s boat would be the ultimate 
ignominy. If we could but get to sea, away, 
if it were but a mile from that cursed town 
of Calais, a man might dare to breathe again. 
But it held us as a prison. AYould the smack 
never weigh ? I asked. How Bordenave 
and his crew raved and ranted on the deck 
above ! You would have thought that the 
railway-station was on fire, or the Hotel de 
Yille. But it was nothing, nothing at all— 
only an argument with a neighbouring 
fisherman. And now the lamp began to 


swing in the musty cabin. The seas, lapping 
upon our sides, beat the bows of the smack 
more heavily. We lifted to them and sank 
again. The cries of rage and fury were 
changed to the methodical words of command. 
I knew that we were at sea; and when 
Harry rose and cried, “ Thank God ! ” the 
chain of my nervous tension snapped as at a 
blow, and the sweat poured down my face 
like rain. 

“ Thank God! AVe are out of the harbour, 
my son. Do you feel her lifting ? Slie is 
making what our friends upstairs call the 
clienal. They are using the sweeps to get 
her out. You will be in Dover before sunrise, 
old fellow.” 

I threw off my heavy fur coat and Aviped 
the perspiration from my face. 

“ It’s Avorse than forty minutes in the 
Grafton county. I shall die for Avant of 
breath.” 

He sat doAvn upon the bench again and 
struck another match. 

“ If the moon behaves decently, we’ll go 
upstairs in ten minutes. My pipe’s out, you 
observe. A man who lets his pipe out has 
been thinking pretty badly. Let me see you 
smoke and I’ll begin to believe in you.” 

I felt in the pocket of my coat for a pipe 
and filled it deliberately. As bad a sailor as 
ever ventured upon a “ pleasure ” ship at 
Margate, the excitement of the night droA-e 
all thought of sickness from my head, and 
found me, for the first time in my life, able 
to smoke upon a ship. And Harry Avas 
talking again iioay. I said that he Avould 
talk all the AA^ay to Dover. 

“ I Avant to hear the story again,” he 
exclaimed, Avhen the pipe Avas going. “ Let us 
have it from the beginning—the Avliole thing, 
and no cuts. I must get to the bottom of 
it—if I can.” 

I settled myself upon the bench and told 
him the Avhole of it this time. 

“As Heaven is my AAdtness,” I said, “I 
believe that the French are trying to make a 
tunnel to England as Ave contemplated making 
one to France some years ago. You under¬ 
stand noAV why my Avits are gone Avandering.” 

He thought upon it for a little while Avith- 
out any of those haphazard conclusions which 
are my trouble. I envied his power of 
silent reasoning ; but I knew that he A\muld 
jest no more. 

“ Let us pan it out,” he replied, Avith his 
composure unruffled. “ You go to Escalles, 
and a man takes you doAvn a cutting at the 
Government Avorks there, and sIioaa^s you a 
tunnel running under the sea. AA^e, in 



We descended the ladder, and, crossinu’ a couple of smacks that lay warped close to the quay, 
we found old Jules Bordenave's boat.” 






286 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


England, know that the French are under¬ 
taking great schemes on the coast, and the 
official explanation to onr Grovernment is 
that they are marine works and coal-shaftings. 
That accounts for the swarm of workmen, 
the engines, the earth, and all the rest of it. 
But, my dear fellow, if they had greater 
designs, if, as a supposition, they were 
making a tunnel, don’t you think tliat 
one of those workmen would give it away, 
and that our Intelligence people would liear 
of it in twenty-four hours ? Why, of course 
they would. There 
has never yet been 
a great surprise of 


war sprung upon 
one nation by an¬ 
other, and there 
neverwillbe. What 
you saw was a shaft 
to reach the coal 
which French geo¬ 
logists believe to be 
under Cap Blanc- 
Nez. Your nerves 
were all wrong, and 
you went at your 
conclusions head¬ 
long, like a baby 
horse at its first 
fence. The man 
who was with you 
forced his own 
ideas upon you and 
you accepted them. 

He would be pleased 
enough to see you 
arrested, but not 
for the reasons you 
imagine. Gherchez 
la femme, and you 
understand his 
game. A threat to 
Lepeletier accounts 
for all that 
happened at the 
Colonel’s house the 
other night. Jeffery named you to his 
superiors as a spy, and enticed you into the 
tunnel. I have undone the lid of the trap, 
and here we are a mile from Calais already. 
Confess that nothing remains but for you to 
lie by at Cottesbrook for a month or so, and 
for me to return to Lepeletier and to have 
it out with him. But I shan’t mention a 
tunnel, because I don’t believe in one.” 

I heard him to the end without protest, 
and then put my own case. His logic was 
unanswerable from his point of view. But I 


had seen that which neither he nor any other 
of^ my countrymen will ever see. Minute by 
minute my mental vision became clearer. 1 
could build up tlie arguments for myself now. 

“ Ask yourself two or three questions, 
Hany,” I said quietly, for the very subject 
gripped the mind as in a vice. “ In the first 
place, did our own engineers believe that it 
was impossible to build a tunnel from Dover 
to Calais ? ” 

“ They convinced (lladstone and AWitkin, 
at any rate.” 


There was talk, I know, about the 
ti’ouble of levels and ventilation, but the 
scheme was supported by any amount of 
money, and the sanity of Parliament alone 
saved us from it. Yery well, what we can 
do the French can do. Tliat is my first 
point.” 

“ Go on, my dear fellow—I admit all that.” 

“And, admitting it, you open the door for 
my second. If it is possible to build a 
tunnel from Calais to Dover, I don’t see why 
a nation, which from the days of Napoleon 



“The old fellow waited for no more, but went up the companion." 






PRO PATRIA. 


287 


has invited madcap schemes for the invasion 
of England, should not turn to this scheme. 
Here is a dare-devil engineer who comes to 
them and says, ‘ You are tunnelling for coal 
under the sea at Escalles. G-ive me per¬ 
mission and I will carry you a shaft through 
to Dover.’ If they listen to him, the next 
point is to cover their intentions. They 
plead before Europe their marine works, a 
great harbour scheme such as we are planning 
at Dover. That permits them, as you say, 
to accumulate stores, workmen, and engines. 
The thousands of tons of earth they bring 
out are not measured by English spades. 
They watcli the works as they watch their 
forts, and no stranger until to-night has 
come within a quarter of a mile of them. 
An Intelligence Department given to somno¬ 
lence is apt to take Government pretensions 
as they find them. It lightens the burden 
of responsibility and is a cloak for laziness. 
Admit that our Intelligence Department has 
done this, and all else follows. The scheme 
is daring to the point of fatality; but it is 
not half so wild as many a scheme of invasion 
to which France has listened during the last 
twenty years. That, at least, is my first 
opinion. I do not think that I shall change 
it to-morrow.” 

He listened to me with growing interest. 
That terrible doubt of the problem served 
one purpose at least, the purpose of causing 
us to forget where we stood and the danger 
which encompassed us about. I was obli vious, 
I think, of the very fact that we were on a 
ship in the outer channel of Calais Harbour. 
Harry, in his turn, was as serious as ever I 
had seen him since the day the Bishop 
ordained him at Ely Cathedral. 

“Alfred, old fellow,” he said, “I could 
pray God tliat all you tell me this night is 
imagination. If it’s that, to-morrow will be 
the end of it. If not, you have a great 
work to do in England. For my part, my 
mind is in a mist, and I cannot see where 
your thoughts are going to. You say the 
pretext of a harbour covers the swarm of 
workmen at Escalles; but what of their 
tongues when they are outside the works ? 
Why does none of them write a word to our 
people, offering the secret for a money pay¬ 
ment? Is it possible to believe in the silence 
of a couple of thousand ? ” 

“ Always supposing that a couple of thou¬ 
sand are in the secret.” 

“ Ah ! I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“ But I had. The men who passed me in 
the tunnel were not ouvriers at all. I should 
not have called them navvies or even 


mechanics. They looked to me like skilled 
engineers. And I ask you, what if these 
men are a chosen hundred to carry the secret 
through unknown to the mob above ? It 
might be so, Harry.” 

He lit his pipe and nodded his head 
slowly. 

“ Yes, I see that ; and when the work was 
done at Escalles, there would be Dover to 
consider. What are they doing at Dover, 
my son ? ” 

“ Heaven only knows ! If ever I see 
Dover again I will tell you.” 

He stood up and went to the companion 
hatch. The movement itself betrayed his 
restlessness of thought and idea. Presently 
he said, “You will make Dover, anyway. 
The lights of Calais are a mile behind us.” 

I rose to follow him, but at the foot of 
the companion he put his hand upon my 
shoulder again. 

“ Kemember,” he continued, “ you may 
have a great work to do in England, Alfred 
Hilliard. Few would do it better. God 
bless you, old fellow, whatever it may be ! ” 

I went up after him to the fresh air and 
the sweetness of the night; but his words 
remained with me. In England, my country, 
I might yet find a great work to do. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A CHAm OF FIKE. 

There had been a full gale blowing from 
the north - east when the rainstorm burst 
upon Escalles some hours ago ; but the wind 
had fallen with the night, and now it was no 
more than a fresh breeze, sweeping down 
Channel from the east and permitting the 
lugger to carry every sail she could set. A 
trim sea boat, speedy as all luggers are, she 
lay upon a course north by west, and met 
the tumbling swell with good "bows that 
lifted her dripping decks triumphantly above 
the angry crests. She would make Dover in 
four hours, or five at the most, it appeared. 
Old Bordenave named four; but he loved 
the ship with a woman’s heart. And an 
hour more or less, how would that help us ? 

“ You wish to fish. Monsieur I’Abbe. No ? 
AYell, it’s all the same to me. We shall have 
a good night, messieurs. Gris-Nez is very 
bright, but that is the rain. You see the 
Foreland in a mist and you say, ‘ Tres Men.' 
When he shines in a ring, take care. If we 
had been fishing to-night we should not 
have made our fortunes. Tres bien^ we will 
not fish.” 



288 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


I laughed when he called Harry “ Mon¬ 
sieur TAbbe,” and I dubbed my friend so 
from that hour. He has been “Monsieur 
I’Abbe ” to all Northamptonshire since that 
day. The cloak of the jest came as a pall 
upon our anxieties, and we were still laughing 
together when the boy at the tiller called 
out— 

“The rocket, messieurs, look at the 
rocket.” 

A sudden hush fell upon the ship. Yonder, 
by Escalles, someone had fired a rocket out¬ 
ward above the sea, and from the citadel at 
Calais another rocket ascended in an orbit of 
gold-blue light. A second and a third signal 
from Escalles remained unanswered from the 
fort; but away towards the west, by Cris-Nez 
and the coast, other rockets shot up from 
other stations, until it seemed that the bows 
of flame were arched in the sky to make a 
great chain of fire from Calais Fort to 
Boulogne Harbour. 

We watched the lights with a curiosity 
which prevailed above words. Old Bordenave 
alone was amused by them. 

“ Regardez he said good-humouredly. 
“ That is how they keep themselves warm at 
Escalles. One, two, three, nom de Dieii, it is 
a fke, then ! We shall want a bottle of 
wine to dance to that. Monsieur I’Abbe. 
And another from AVissant ! Then some 
poor devil is out of the prison. There was 
one last week, and they shot him under the 
wall of the harbour works. I do not like 
to hear of that—I am too old. Give me law 
and order and the long legs, Abbe. xAnd 
God send an open door for that poor 
devil.” 

In my heart I said “ Amen ” devoutly, 
and when the old man turned to me he found 
a ready seconder. Nevertheless he looked 
at me a little closer than he had done, and 
afterwards he stood to learn if any boat were 
coming out of Calais Harbour. But we were 
alone there. Other smacks, it is true, lay 
beyond us toward Dover and the open sea ; 
but no vessel swam in the hither water 
between Calais Harbour and the lugger. 
And the wind fell to the softest of breezes. 
AYe should never make Dover in four hours, 
I told myself—perhaps not in ten. 

“ That bottle of wine, Bordenave,” I ex¬ 
claimed, seeking to draw him from the deck ; 
“ we were in such a hurry to go fishing with 
you that we forgot to dine. If you have a 
biscuit and a glass of wine I will say that 
your boat is not to be beaten between Finis- 
terre and Flamborough Head. Come, there 
is a bottle of wine aboard, ancient ? ” 


The old man heard me affably enough. 
He was one of those thirsty souls who lick 
their lips whenever they hear a cork go pop ; 
and at the word “ wine ” the sun seemed to 
shine upon him again. 

“ Ah ! ” he exclaimed, as though he meant 
nothing at all by the remark, “then you 
came away in a hurry, monsieur ? ” 

Harry was up in arms in a moment. 

“Captain Hilliard is always in a hurry 
when the ladies are about, Bordenave. He 
thought he was going to the Casino. A bon 
entendeur. He left his dinner for les beam 
yeux. And now he’s starving. Give him a 
biscuit and he will show you a splendid set 
of teeth—all his’own, too.” 

Bordenave looked at me again, at my 
dress-suit, my fur coat, perchance at my 
haggard face—for the hotel glass had shown 
me how haggard it was. But, whatever his 
suspicions might have been, he was either 
too avaricious or too benevolent to think 
more of them ; and with a word that might 
have meant nothing, or might have meant a 
good deal, he led the way down the companion 
into the stinking cabin again. 

“ Let us go below, Abbe. Sometimes it is 
good to be where people cannot see you. If 
the Captain is hungry, we will take care of 
him. I am hungry myself, and I have no 
teeth, vous savez. All the better to rob the 
dentists—the thieves who say, ‘Buy your 
teeth of me, and I will take your old ones 
away for nothing.’ If they would send their 
fireworks up for the dentists I would say 
‘ Bravo ! ’ This way, messieurs, and mind 
the dog.” 

Chattering and laughing always, he made 
a place for us on the benches of the cabin and 
produced his treasures. The assortment was 
odd, to the point of laughter. A roll of 
coarse sausage, rich and abundant; some 
cooked fish in a piece of blue paper ; a yard 
of delicious white bread, and butter abun¬ 
dantly. For the rest, onions, beetroot, an old 
coffee-pot, milk in a l3asin, and three bottles 
of harsh vin du imjs., sharp, heavy, acrid, 
honest. I have dined under curious circum¬ 
stances many times in my life, but never as I 
dined then. In spite of all, of the pathos, 
the pity, the fear of that which I had 
undergone, my hunger would have satisfied a 
gourmand. And the stimulating properties 
of the raucous wine found me grateful. 
They gave me a Dutch courage, which at 
least permitted me to forget that rockets 
were being fired from the heights of Blanc- 
Nez, and that the long night must pass 
before we made Dover Harbour. 


PRO PATRJA. 


289 



“ Well, slvi])])er, it will be four hours, yet, 
don’t you think? ” 

“ Give me a wind, monsieur, and it shall 
be three.” 

‘‘ But if the wind drops ? ” 

“A sensible (juestion,” chimed in Harry. 
“ If the wind drops we shall p:et out and 


push. What do you say, Bordenave, shall 
we get out and pusli ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, the Abbe is master here. If he thinks 
that he can Avalk upon the sea —trh hien. 
I reiiK'niber a fellow who made shoes in 
which to walk from Gris-Nez to Folkestone. 
Saprkti! what shoes they were ! He was 

X 






290 


THE WTNDSOJl MAGAZINE. 


drowned off Wissaiit, and we buried him with 
his shoes in the cemetery tliere. That istlie 
way with all those fellows. They have it all 
in tiieir heads and then they try to teach the 
sea. The sea says ‘ Xo,’ and down they go.” 

“ As the inairin the ffying machine,” said 
1. ‘‘ AVhen I was a youngster I saw one fall 

headlong, at Knightsbridge, in Loudon. I 
could see him clawing at the air as he caine 
down. He fell with a sickening thud which 
I hear now when I dream. It was just as 
though all his bones went snap at once.” 


secret. T would have staked a fortune 
on it. 

“ The sea, by all means,” cried Harry, 
raising his glass willingly ; “ the sea, and the 
skipper of the smack JlirondeUe. I drink 
to you, Lordenave. You will make Dover, 
after all.” 

The old seaman emptied a mug of wine at 
a draught and filled another pipe. 

“ The Abbe said a hundred francs-” 

‘‘ And the Abbe’s friend another 
hundred.” 



“ Tlie French crew watched me witli an amazed silence." 


“ Pray for his soul,” cried Bordenave, 
“ God has not meant us to fly, monsieur. If 
He had, we should have found the place where 
the wings go on. I do not want to fly, and I 
am happy. The earth is good enough for 
me—the earth and the sea. Pill your glass, 
Abbe, and drink to the sea. You owe her 
something to-night, do you not ? ” 

I looked u]) quickly at Harry and caught 
his warning glance. The rockets at Gris-Xez 
had not been fired in vain, then ! This 
cunning old Frenchman could share their 


I thank you, messieurs ; two hundred 
francs, then.” 

“ And another hundred for the excellent 
supper we have eaten. You must permit me 
to pay for that, Bordenave.” 

“Ah, monsieur, if I should object-? ” 

“ Then there’s the wine, Bordenave—would 

a hundred francs-? ” 

Nomde Dieu !—four hundred francs; and 
all for making Dover Harbour. You shall be 
there at three o’clock, messieurs. If you 
wish to go back again to-morrow, I will come 





PRO PATRIA, 


•291 


and call for you. Four hundred francs— 
but I shall grow rich.” 

In this way was the compact made. I 
have no doubt at all that the grasping old 
rascal knew from that moment, at least, the 
plainer facts of our story, and the meaning 
of the rockets which Escalles had fired. An 
Englishman sought to escape from France 
and would not go by the packet-boat. He 
offered four hundred francs for the passage. 
Very good ; old Bordenave was quite willing 
to be corrupted. He ratlier liked it. 

‘‘ Finish your wine at your ease, messieurs. 
I am going upstairs to whistle for a wind. 
If there are any more fireworks, I will tell 
you. The Abbe’s friend may wish to lie 
down—eh, monsieur ? You would not have 
all the people see you on deck ? ” 

‘‘As you please, Bordenave. But I am 
very tired to-night.” 

“ Then you sliall sleep, monsieur. I will 
call you when I make the quay. Four 
hundred francs! Mon Dieu! you shall 
certainly see Dover.” 

He went away, and presently the pattering 
feet above our head spoke of business on deck 
and the clianging of the sails. For my 
part, fatigue was telling upon me again ; and 
that and the wine contrived an indolent state 
of mind wherein nothing is very real or very 
fearful to us. One anxiety alone troubled 
me. I must be sure of Harry’s friendship at 
Calais. 

“ I leave it to you, Harry, to bring 
Lepeletier to reason,” said 1. “ There is no 

one else I could ask or would ask. Y^ou 
know that ? ” 

He smiled at my simplicity. 

“Man,” he said, “is it really Lepeletier 
about whom you are so anxious ? ” 

“ You will tell him just what I have told 
yon—saving that which you call my imagina¬ 
tion.” 

He Avas serious in an instant. 

“ Yes,” he said ; “ it would be well to say 
nothing about that. When you are at DoA’er 
yon can Avrite and tell me hoAV far you are 
justified or I am foolish.” 

And then he AA^ent on flippantly again— 

“ At Dublin, the Viceroy kisses all the 
debutantes^ yon knoAA\ I Avonder if the 
custom holds in mere embassies. To-morroAv, 
remember, I represent you at the Court of 
Lepeletier. Eeally, my dear felloAA^ it should 
not be difficult Avhere Mademoiselle xignes is 
concerned.” 

It Avas my turn to be serious. 

“ Oh,” said I, “ I haA^e done AAuth that.” 

“Done Avith it? Hark to him. Done 


AAuth the prettiest thing in France. Shame 
on you, my son ! I Avill bring her to 
Cottesbrook myself before the month is 
out.” 

“ I Avish to Heaven you could, Hariy.” 

“ Oh, but I shall. I am determined upon 
it. The place AA^ants Avaking up, and she 
AA'ill do it. Does she ride, think you ? 
Imagine the spleen of forty-tAvo doAA-agers 
Avho have daughters ready for you.” 

“ They Avill be very angry, certainly.” 

“ x4nd your mother. I Avould give much 
to see the day when Lady Hilliard first 
kisses little Agnes Lepeletier.” 

“ I Avould give half my fortune, Harry.” 

He had mentioned my mother’s name, 
which I never hear but some picture of my 
childliood and of a mother’s life is conjured 
up thereby and set for me in a frame of the 
past most precious. And noAv a picture 
came again as I lay resting on the cabin 
bench, and the SAvish of the seas Ave breasted 
Avas a sleep song. Cottesbrook, my home, 
Avith its })astures, its old-Avorld people, its 
Avoods, its dells, its Abbey house—hoAv far 
off it seemed 1 One face alone I missed from 
the house of my dreams—the face of her 
Avho had told me an hour ago that Ave should 
never meet again, that a gulf impassable Avas 
set betAveen us. Would Agnes cA-er reign at 
Cottesbrook ? Aye, God alone could answer 
that question. I could not lift the veil of 
the future Avhich loomed so darkly. Dream¬ 
ing, I saAV my liome ; but the sun did not 
shine upon it, and there Avas darkness in the 
Avoods. 

K troubled sleep I slept in that miserable 
cabin, but a sleep AA’hich left me refreshed 
Avhen Harry AA'aked me and told me to go 
on deck Avith him. He AA^as AA'eailng oil¬ 
skins then, and the lamp’s Avan light shoAved 
the dull, leaden drops of Avater upon his cape, 
and the pallor of the face AAdiich looked doAvn 
to mine. But I was still heavy with the 
dream, and did not understand him at 
first. 

“ AVhat is it ? What do you say ? Have I 
been asleep ? What a fool 1 ” 

He gave me a hand from the bench and 
turned toAvards the companion. 

“ Old Bordenave is curious,” he said. “ A 
tug has folioAved the fishing fleet from Calais 
and is searching some of the sliips. You’d 
better come on deck, for it Avill be our turn 
soon.” 

I Avent up after him Avith leaden steps. It 
Avas no surprise to me. Eeason had told me 
from the first that I must answer for the 
night in the citadel of Calais. 


292 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ENGLISH VOICES. 

I HAD thought that it \Yas yet dark when 
Harry waked me ; but when we went np to 
the deck the greyer lights of dawn were in the 
west; and eastward the sun came np above 
the waters as a hall of fire new kindled and 
mellow. All about ns the lazy sea canglit the 
morning’s beams and tossed them in jewels of 
the spindrift. The coast of France was no 
longer Avhite above onr horizon. Dover her¬ 
self, as a picture cut in stone, stood above the 
waters dominatingly, in silent, nnwaked 
majesty, the very type of a fortress town. 
We Avere not a mile from the Admiralty Pier, 
not a mile from safety and the shore. The 
neAV harbour Avorks shaped clear in the break¬ 
ing rays of sunliglit, and beyond them I could 
distinguish the big hotels, tlie ramparts of the 
Castle, St. Mary’s Church as a nest upon the 
cliff side. In fifteen minutes, I said, Ave 
sliould have passed the harbour gates, for the 
tide served. Why, then, AA^as old Bordenave 
curious ? 

“ Yonder, Captain,” he cried, ‘‘ yonder is 
the Calais tug. Look for yourself. Tliey 
have just stopped La Jllouette., and my 
friend Been. He avouM be tAvo miles from 
here, perhaps. It Avill lie our turn next, the 
Abbe says. Very Avell, if tlie Captain does 
not mind ! ” 

An odd sensation came over me AAdiile he 
spoke. It AA^as not altogether fear, it Avas 
not a sudden consciousness of danger. To¬ 
day I should call it excitement pure and 
simple—exactly the same sensation as comes 
to a man Avho Avaits for the start of a race in 
which he is a runner. Pursuit liad dogged 
me all niglit as a shadoAV ; but the morning 
sun brought it to the light. We played no 
longer in the dark. 

“Are you sure of Avhat yousay,Bordenave ? ” 
I asked as quietly as I could. “ Are there no 
steam-trawlers Avith your fleet ? ” 

He put his hands deep into his pockets and 
puffed quickly at his pipe. 

“ Look here. Captain ! ” he exclaimed 
bluntly, “ if you do not Avant to see your 
friends from Calais, I AA^ould say. Be off as 
quickly as you can.” 

We all laughed, in spite of ourselves, at his 
Avay of putting it, Harry louder than the rest 
of us. 

“ Where are your Avings, Bordenave ? ” he 
cried noAV. “ Give the Captain a pair and he 
Avill fly to 1 lover. You say there is no Avind ? ” 

“ Not enougli to lift a hag, Abbe. Look 
at the sail yonder. Does that say wind ? ” 


“But you could roAv me ashore in the 
dinghy ?” I suggested. 

Bordenave turned and looked me full in 
the face. 

“ They are blind on the steamer, then. 
Captain ? ” 

“Yon mean that they Avould be here before 
Ave could get ashore.” 

“ They Avill be here in tAA'enty minutes 
—less if you put a boat out. Do not 
trust them. Captain ; thev have good 
eyes.” 

Harry stamped his foot. 

“ Then, in Heaven’s name, how is the 
man to get ashore ? ” 

“ Messieurs,” replied the skipper Avith some 
difficulty, “ I liaA^e done my best.” 

We fell to silence and to Avatching the 
distant ships. DaAvn found the sea as a lake ; 
the hour of slack Avater Avas nearly done, I 
imagined. Two miles aAA^ay or more, toAvards 
the cliffs of France, a tug lay near a French 
smack, and had put out a boat to board her. 
I realised that in ten minutes the same boat 
might be hailing the HironcMIe. 

“ Harry,” I said, turning to him Avith the 
sure knoAvledge that he could not help me, 
“ I must get ashore somehoAV,” 

“ I agree,” he ansAvered gravely. 

“ The longer Ave Avait, the greater the 
chance for those felloAvs to understand.” 

“ There is only one Avay, Alfred.” 

“ I am going to take it, Harry.” 

He Avrung my hand, but said nothing. My 
fur coat lay on the deck noAV, and my boots 
Avere quickly beside it. The French creAv 
Avatched me Avith an amazed silence Avhich 
AAUs eloquent of their thoughts. Already the 
smoke from the tug’s funnel drifted from the 
hither sea and began to shut out the vieAV of 
the smack and the boat. There AA^as no time 
to lose. I stood np in my vest and draAvers, 
and rolling my lighter clotlies in a bundle I 
tied them round my neck. Even then I could 
remember my sovereign-purse and the case 
Avhich held my money. 1 should have need 
of them ashore. 

“ I must get to Dover, Harry.” 

“ God bless you, old fellow ! but it’s worth 
trying.” 

“ You Avill see x4gnes to-morroAV ? ” 

“Of course I shall.” 

“ Tell her that I remember my promise.” 

“Monsieur, monsieur, the tug is moving 
again.” 

Old Bordenave spoke. I did not look 
behind me, and without another Avord to 
them dived into the sea. There Avas only one 
idea in my mind. At any cost I must reach 



I consoled myself from the first with the assurance that the pier was not a mile away.” 










204 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Dover Harl)our—the shore of niy own 
country. 

I liad plunged well away fi 3m the stern of 
the smack, and so shelfcerea by it that I 
accounted myself safe, at least, for the 
moment, from any observation by those upon 
the tng. The sea struck cold as ice upon the 
head, lont the first vigorous strokes sent the 
wm-ming blood through my veins, and 
turning upon my side I began to work 
strongly for the Admiralty Pier. I remember 
well that I consoled myself from the first 
with the assurance that the pier was not a 


then, but of those behind me I would not 
think. All that Harry had said was said by 
me again and again. If I had been the 
victim of imagination—very well, my escapade 
could hurt no one. If, on the other hand, I 
had learned a truth so great that I feared to 
speak of it even to my oldest friend—why, 
then I was a thousand times justified of that 
which I did. The very doubt helped my 
resolution. I was not a mile from England, 
and in England I had a great woilc to do. 
Never did man swim in the sea for a stake so 
terrible or for a shore so dear. 



“ lie lifted lue as a child from the sea to his boat.” 


mile away, and that I had swum a mile many 
a time in the great lake at Cottesbrook. 
Prom the smack’s deck I could distinguish 
the very porters Avaiting by the morning train 
for the packet-boat from Calais. Those fellows 
Avould be astonished Avhen a half-naked man 
came up to their carriages, I said. And I 
should find myself ashore with a pair of 
soaked flannels and a flannel coat Aveighing 
any number of Avet pounds ; but it Avould be 
upon the shore of England, and to-morroAV 
my Avork Avould begin. Subtly and calmly 
my mind aaus busy already Avith the great 
uncertainty. I could think of twenty things 


The sea Avas calm, a great lake rolling 
lazily in the sun of the morning. From the 
smack’s deck I had seen the houses of Dover 
as in some mighty scene of a play ; but now, 
from the level of the AA^ater, they appeared a 
great Avay off, as though a hand had rolled 
them back for my despair, and set a greater 
gulf betAveen the SAvimmer and the shore. I 
kneAv that my deceptive vision tricked me, 
and took no thought of it, but only of that 
Avhich lay behind me, and of the tug, AA’^hich 
I began to remember Avhen the first energy 
of flight had passed. Had I been observed 
by the Frenchmen, or did old Bordenave’s 











FRO PATRIA. 


295 


boat still shield me ? Once as I turned upon 
my back to breathe I beheld the still sea 
behind me and the smack hove to, and be¬ 
yond it the S(iuat steamer, with smoke pouring 
from its twin funnels and crests of foam at 
its bows. Doubt was possible no longer. 
The tug was making for the Hirondellc, and 
in ten minutes a boat from it would follow 
me. 

I rested but an instant and then was upon 
my side again. 

It is one thing to swim at leisure, for the 
love of it, knowing that you may turn to the 
shore or the depths at your will; it is another 
matter to swim for your liberty, if not for 
your life. I had set out from the ship 
thinking that I had a child’s task before me ; 
but the half of a mile taught me the lesson, 
and for a little while a despair, almost as of 
death, settled upon me. Seas which had 
been gentle as the touch of flowers upon the 
lips now began to buffet me with stinging- 
slaps. I sank lower in the water and came 
up again Avith difficulty. The sky, grey and 
cold of morning, seemed far above me. I 
could no longer distinguish Dover, for the 
salt stung and burned my eyes ; and all about 
me was the grey, green swell, pitiless, inflnite, 
torturing. It was ordained that I must die 
there—die when my voice could be heard in 
England and her white cliffs might almost 
cover me with their shadows. And yet of 
death I thought less than of the tug 
steaming there in my wake, one mile, two it 
might be, from the place where I lay. How 
far was she behind me noAV ? How my 
strength seemed to fail me ! I must rest, 
must breathe—they might take me if they 
willed. It would be a relief, I said, to sink 
down, down, and to sleep in the eternal 
silence of the depths. 

Someone halloed across the sea, and I 
thought that I recognised the voice of Harry, 
and that he warned me of the tug’s approach. 
Once I heard a siren blasted, and then the 
whistle of an engine, curiously near to me. 
I had been swimming the breast stroke wlieii 
the voice came floating over the waters, but 
now I sank down until my head Avas but a 
little Avay abo\^e the Avaves, and so looked 
backward at the ship and the men. Dor- 
denave’s boat still lay there, perhaps three- 
quarters of a mile from me, and tlie tug aa^s 
near by it, apparently hailing it and sending 
out a boat again. 

But that Avliich brouglitall my courage back 
as upon a beam of light Avas the spectacle of 
Dover herself, so near to me, so clear in the 
vigour of the day, that I had but to SAvim a 


hundred strokes to make its harbour, I 
thought. AYhat tide there Avas appeared to 
help me to the great buttress of the pier. I 
perceived it all so plainly in the pleasing mel- 
loAV gloAV of daAvn, the lapping Avaves, the men 
upon the jetty, the Avhite houses beyond, the 
Avaiting train, Avith a shimmer of steam above 
the engine’s funnel. There AAns but a little 
river of grey, green AAnter betAveen us; and so 
gentle a river that it seemed to sport and play 
as a human thing Avaking to greet the rising 
sun. I said, Avhen I beheld it, that nothing 
could stand noAV betAveen me and my victory ; 
and, roused at the siren’s call as by a clarion 
note, I struck out for the shore again Avith a 
measure of strength Avhich amazed me. 

Three hundred yards to go, perhaps—three 
liundred yards for liberty and a prize of 
liberty beyond my Avords. Hoav my heart 
beat as every stroke carried me a little 
Avay to that giant pier, Avhere the very stones 
reAvarded my exhausted eyes ! Hone Avould 
pursue me uoav, I said, or, pursuing, must 
ansAver English voices and an English laAV. 
Odd, indeed, it AAns that no one observed the 
SAvimmer from the shore ; but aaAio Avould 
have looked for him in such a place and at 
such an hour ? Alone I sAvam ; alone I 
passed througli those phases of hope and fear, 
of joy and despair, Avliich such a scene could 
not fail to create for me. Hone folloAA-ed, I 
said. Oh, amazing confidence ! for, saying it, 
I heard the steamer’s’paddles beating the AA^ater 
again, and knew that she pursued me. She 
AA^as coming on, then, into the Awy mouth of 
the harbour ! 

For one unforgotten moment I ceased to 
SAvim and listened to the echoes. Let those 
Avho have been in the AA-ater remember the 
throb of a steamer’s paddle as it smites the 
seas and tumbles them back\Anrd in eddies of 
rushing foam. AYliat a sound it is, mysterious 
as the rolling thunder from the depths, a 
ceaseless sound, making the Avaters tremble 
and the SAvell ripple even at the foot of the 
distant shores. And noAv I had the echo of 
it throbbing in my ears ; the Avaves seemed 
to tremble as at some foreign poAA^er ; I could 
feel by instinct that a ship Avas behind me, 
that it raced up toAvard me, that I might even 
be draAvn doAvn by itssAvell as in a Avhirlpool. 
The knowledge AAns torture—torture beyond 
all poAA^er of Avriting. I had dared so much 
to Avin so little. It Avould be a humiliation 
surpassing Avords to be taken here, Avhen but 
tAVo hundred yards lay betAveen me and my 
liberty ; and yet taken I should be unless a 
miracle saved me. Every moment carried the 
steamer nearer ; every stroke of mine was 


290 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


ciiiswered by a louder, more thunderous echo 
of her paddles. She was a hundred, fifty 
yards away, I thought. Those upon her 
deck were hailing me now. Many A'oices 
at once cried out a warning. I could 
not believe my ears. They were English 
voices. 

Dazed to the point of unconsciousness, 
worn out as much by excitement as by 
fatigue, I saidv lower iu the sea and waited 
for tlie end. The beat of the steamer’s paddles 
had ceased by this time, and in their place I 
could hear the splash of oars and a steady 
word of command. Again, I say, it was an 
English voice that spoke—the mockery of it! 
—an English voice upon the Calais tug. But 
I had no longer the strength or the will to 
resist the man who hailed me. He lifted me 
as a child from the sea to his boat; and as a 


child I lay half senseless while they rowed 
me to the steamer. 

To the steamer, indeed, to a big ship where 
many crowded aljout me, and strange faces 
peered into mine, and a man with a gold- 
laced cap brought me a glass of brandy, and 
others rolled me in blankets to carry me to 
the cabin below. "With wonderstruck eyes I 
looked at the officer and at those who helped 
him. The trim jerseys, the name upon their 
caps, above all (and my hand well may hasten 
to set that down)—above all, the English 
faces. Great God ! I asked, where was I? 
What did it mean ? AVhose ship was this ? 

Laugh with me you who read. I had been 
picked up by the morning boat from Calais, 
and before another hour was struck by the 
harbour clock I walked, a free man, in the 
streets of Dover. 


END OF BOOK I. 





By F. Klickmann. 


r T is curious to notice how our whole life, from heginuing to end, is dominated hy 
quotations. As youngsters, we say our simple hymns and nursery jingles till they 
become part and parcel of our very existence. When we get to the school stage, Ave 
absorb “ To be, or not to be,” “ Excelsior,” “ Friends, Komans, countrymen,” and such-like 
classics (under stern compulsion, doubtless, but that is a very minor side-issue), and these add 
materially to our stock-in-trade. As serious-minded youths, we heavily score our favourite 
authors, and copy out folios of choice extracts—those almost pathetic extracts that turn up 
and confront us in later years, with odd, haunting memories of noble things we meant to 
achieve which still remain undone ! But, finally, out of all the motley collection that we 
have gathered from the wayside and the highways and hedges of life’s journey, there are 
usually two or three that appeal to our own individuality more than all the others put 
together ; one may suit us in one mood, one may help us in another ; but, however it may 

be, they reju’esent us ourselves, that 
underlying Ego that Ave are often 
so careful to disguise from other 
people. 

Just as a man’s favourite books 
Avill betray his personal tastes, so 
his favourite quotations Avill invari¬ 
ably indicate his attitude toAvards 
life or his aspirations. One feels 
that literary men and Avonien must 
be the best equipped in the matter 
of quotations. They have dived into 
such deep and Avealthy mines of 
book-lore, and one knoAvs they never 
return empty-handed. But, on in¬ 
terrogating them on the matter, I 
found that by very reason of the Avide 
range of their reading it Avas not 
ahvays easy for them to name one 
extract that stood out prominently 
from among all others. “Ian 
Maclaren ” (Dr. Watson) expresses 
tills very happily. He says: “ I have 
so many favourite quotations that I 
could not mention one Avithout giving 
offence to all the others, and perhaps 
ceasing to be on speaking terms Avith 
them.” 

Another celebrated writer has, 
MK. F. MAUIOX CKAWFOHD. hoAvevcr, uiiAAdttiugly throwii con- 

Repro.h<ce,lJ,ykMpermiui«nga^^^^ siderable light Oil this SUbject, 



297 

























298 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



though he little dreamt into Avhat direful complications his revelation might plunge the 
famous author of Yovnfj Barharians ! 

Mr. Coulson Kernahan writes : “ A favourite quotation isn’t like a wife !—we may have 
more than one. Ihit just as a sailor is said to have a sweetheart in every port, so I must 
confess to a favourite quotation in any numher of books. For working purposes, however, 
the following is hard to 
beat— 


“ ‘ Be pitiful, for every man is 
fighting a hard battle.’ 


I wish 1 could say it Avas of 
my own coining, but it is 
from the Erliish Weekh/, 
where it appeared as my 
friend Ian Maclaren’s Christ¬ 
mas G-reeting.” 

One can oidy hope that 
all the other favourite quo¬ 
tations will promptly acquit 
Dr. Watson of any personal 
intent to sIioav an undue 
preference on this occasion. 

Miss Marie Corelli writes: 
“ I have so man// favourites 
—l)ut I send the Dvo Avhich 
represent my own disposition 
most thoroughly— 


‘‘ ‘ Call jue Avhat instru¬ 
ment you will, though you 
can ‘fret’ me, you cannot 
play upon me ! ’— Hamlet. 


“‘Then, welcome each re¬ 
buff 

That turns earth’s smooth¬ 
ness rough. 

Each sting that bids nor sit 
nor stand but go ! 

Be our joy three-parts 
pain ! 

Strive, and hold cheap 
the strain ; 

Learn, nor account the pang; 
dare, never grudge 
the throe ! ’ 

—Ko 1’.KllT Bkowning.” 

One is not surprised that 
a writer of the calibre of 

Mr. Guy Bootliby should ruotobyi vrnmas. 

find his favourite quotation mr. guy RooTiniY rx ms study. 

ill the works of Eudyard 

Kipling. He mentions a l erse in UEnvoi at the end of Life''s Haiidkap — 


“ ‘ One instant’s toil to Thee denied 
Stands all eternity’s offence. 

Of that I did ivith Thee to guide 
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.’ ” 


Nor is Mr. Boothby alone in singling out this particular poem. It has likewise been 
named by Mr. William Canton, though one could not find two men whose writings are more 





THE FAVOURITE QUOTATION’S OF LITERARY PEOPLE. 299 

I have 60 many favourite quotations that I could not men¬ 
tion one without giving offence to all the othersi and perhaps 


ceasing to be onspeaking terms with them, 


Yours faithfully, ^ 


utterly dissimilar than the creator of that fascinating fiend, Dr. Nikola, and the author of 
those literary gems, The Invisible Playmate and W. V., her Book. Mr. Canton says : “ I 
have (|uoted a stanza from what seems to me to be one of the most beautiful poems that 
Mr. Kipling has published, IIEnvoi to Life's Handimi )— 

“ ‘ Take not that vision from my ken ! 

Oh, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed. 

Help me to need no aid from men, 

That I may help such men as need.’ ” 

Mr. Robert Barr sends some lines that have before to-day stirred up the courage 
and “ grit ” in the heart of many a man who was beginning to think he saw nothing but 
“ Failure,” writ large, before him— 

“ ‘ One wlio never turned his back, but marched breast forward, 

Never doubted clouds would break. 

Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph. 

Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, 

Sleep to wake.’— Robert Browning.” 

But Mr. Barr can never be serious in a letter, wliatever he may be in his quotation. He 
has long been celebrated as one of tlie wittiest letter-writers of the day. However short his 
note may ])e, it is long enougli to afford him an opening ’ for some little touch of the 
humouresqne. In the present instance he writes : “ The above is my favourite quotation. 
AYlienever you want sometliiiig helpful, you know, look up the writings of the talented 
R. B.’s—Robert Burns, Robert Browning, Robert Buchanan, Robert Bruce, or 

“ Robert Barr.” 

jMiss Beatrice Harraden likewise makes a selection from the greatest of “ the talented 
R. B.’s.” She writes : “Your question is bewildering, as one has so many favourite lines 



U^UilU, 


















:]()() 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


tumbling about wliicli cannot be called forth to order ; 
but I am very fond of these words from Browning’s Saul— 


“ ‘ The palm wine sliall staunch 

Every wound of man’s spirit in winter.’ 


“Also this, from The Tivo Gentlemm of Verona— 

“ ‘ The current that with gentle murmur glides 

Tliou know’st, being stopped, impatiently dotli rage. 
But when his fair course is not hindered. 

He makes sweet music with the enamell’d stones.’” 


“ ‘ Let Eagle bid the Tortoise sunward soar. 

As vainly strength speaks to a broken mind.’ 

“ ‘ Written on a scrap of paper by Colericl^-e 
in reply to 'riioinas Poole on his urging C. to exert 
himself.—1807.’ ” 

“John Strange AVinter” (Mrs. Stan- 
nard) asks : “ Why sliould one have 
favourite quotations ? It would be 




MR. WII.IJAM CANTON. 


ku 


1 hope I 
favourite 




j 




One is not surprised that j\Ir. Clement K. Shorter, 
who has always been a close student of the (Terman 
philosophical writers, should go to the land of great thinkers 
for his favourite quotation in literature. He says : “ I 
cannot hesitate to select one which, from my earliest years 
when J began to read German with enthusiasm, has always 

been ringing in my ears— 

“ ‘ Im Ganzen, Gufen, Wah- 
ren rerolut zu lelen .''-—In tlie 
AATiole, the Good, the True to 
live resolutely.” 

Mr. Richard Le Gallienne 
sends the spirit, if not the 
letter, of the couplet he most 
admires : “ AA^hat am I to say ? 
I have so many favourite 
Cl notations ; but I suppose you 
only allow me one. AVell, it 
shall be this serious pronounce¬ 
ment on life, from Stevenson’s 
(JkiltrH Garden — 






quote correctly, 
misc|uotation.” 


but if not you can call it my 


“ ‘The world is so full of a 
number of things. 
That we all ought to be 
as happy as kings.’ 


Aliss Bradclon (Airs. Alaxwell) says • “ It is difficult to 
choose a few lines out of a series of commonplace books 
in Avhich I could count my favourite quotations by 
hundreds ; but I send these as among random scraps 
garnered and appreciated—the first for its music, the 
second for its thought— 

“ ‘ Love had he found in huts where pool’ men lie ; 

His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 

The silence that is in the starry sky. 

The sleep that is among the lonely hills.’ 

—Wordsworth. 


301 


THE FAY Oil RITE qU0TA[^A:0NE 


OF LITERARY PEOPLE. 


hideously inartistic to try to narrow one’s cupremest appreciation down to this or that line 
when there, arc thousands that riglitly give equal delight. I value Longfellow most among 
poets, and love scores of his beautiful expressions, but I would no more attempt to pick 
out a favourite than I would to select the best brick from a builder’s stack. But most of 
us have favourite proverbs or sayings which often enough are quotations. Mine is— 

“ ‘ Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.’ ” 


Miss Helen Mathers (Mrs. 
Beeves) quotes Kingsley’s dear 
familiar verse— 

“ Be good, sweet maid, and let 
who will be cle\'er. 

Do noble things, not dream 
them all day long ; 

And so make Life, Death, 
and that vast ‘ For ever ’ 
One grand, sweet song.” 

Mr. Max Pemberton quotes 
from the Rubdkjdi of Omar 
Khayyam— 

“ Into this Universe, and Why 
not knowing 

Nor Whence, like Water 
willy-nilly flowing ; 
And out of it, as Wind 
along the AYaste, 

I know not AVhither, willy- 
nilly blowing.” 

Mr. S. R. Crockett refers 
us to the greatest of his literary 
fellow-countrymen, though he 
says : “ I have no favourite 
quotation in the sense of one 
above all others. But I have 
always felt that Scott’s dying 
words to his children put my 
own aspiration— 

‘‘ ‘ For myself, my dears, I 
am unconscious of ever having 
done any man an injury, or 
omitted any fair opportunity of 
doing any man a benefit.’ ” 

Mrs. Louise Chandler Moul¬ 
ton writes from her home in 
Boston, Mass., and it is curious 
to notice how her letter vibrates 
with that sense of sadness—the 
sadness that lingers around an 
autumn sunset—which is the 
keynote to so many of her beautiful poems, more especially in her last volume. At the 
Winds Will: “I lieartily wish I could answer your letter by giving you a list of my 
favourite quotations. But such a list would run into hundreds, I am afraid. So many 
centuries are to l)e counted in wliicli so many beautiful things have been said. AYhen I 
think of death—and death is the one only certainty—I find myself asking, with Hamlet, 

‘ For in that slee]) of death wliat dreams may come ? ’ and then remembering, with Plenley, 
that ‘ Into the dark go one and all.’ Then, perhaps, I fortify myself with Stevenson’s 
superb Requiem.^ and try to believe that I, too, shall ‘ gladly die,’ and ‘ lay me down with a 



Photo by'] 


[J/tss Gertrude Uarraden. 









302 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


^ Av't^ 




will.’ But when on this one theme of all— 
conquering death, countless quotations pursue 
each other ; and there are so many themes ! 
Forgive, then, the inadequacy of my reply.” 


“ Edna Lyall ” (Miss Bayly) sends this line— 
Be just, and fear not.” 


Mayne Lindsay, that brilliant young writer 
whose Indian stories rank second only to those of 
Kipling and Mrs. Steel, says : ‘‘ I instinctively 
turned to Stevenson to find my favourite quotation, 
but I found it such a vain task to make an 
extract when I could only conscientiously tran¬ 
scribe him by the volume, that I turned to MattheAV 
Arnold. By the way, I suppose they are an oddly 
diverse couple to be bracketed for first place in 

•I ^ Ift^x <7 


7Ul^ mJx 






f I 





anybody’s affections. But still they 
are there, in mine, vice Browning lately 
deposed. But this is not giving you 
the quotation. It is the last lines of 
Rugly Chapel, that end— 


Photo byl 


[Killkk tfc Abbot. 


MK. MAX PP:MIiEllTON. 


*‘y - 

U 7 “‘i 


. Follow your 
steps as ye go. 
Ye fill up the gaps 
in our files. 
Strengthen the 
wavering line, 
’Stablish,continue 
our march. 

On, to the bound 
of the waste, 
On, to the City 
of God ! ’ ” 


t*>*> <*UL it' ^ 4" • 


















Mr. F. Marion 
0 r a w f 0 r d , who 
divides his life 
between bright 
America and still 
brighter Italy, sends 
a quotation in what 
is practically his 
second native lan¬ 
guage. He writes 
from Italy: “ I find 
it very hard to dis¬ 
cover what my 
favourite quotation 
is. If there is one 
I prefer to another, 
it is, perhaps— 

“ ‘ Risurgi e Vinci.' 



THE FAVOURITE QUOTATIOXS OF LITERARY PEOPLE. 




The words are found in Dante’s ParadUo., 
towards the end of the XlVth Canto.” 




“ Maxwell Gray,” tlie author of the famous 
SiJmce of Dean Maitland, writes :—‘‘ It seems 
to me that no one but a fool conld have a 
favourite quotation, bnt I may be mistaken. 
At an age Avhen people are expected to l)e 
fools, I wrote in grammar and dictionary 
leaves, ‘ Vinco aat Morlor^' VSans Pear et 
sans Reproclho: rerha])S they wei’e my 
favourite mottoes. Also a poem on ‘ DvJce 



Photo hy\ [J. Thomson. 

MISS HELEN :MATHERS (MHS. KEEVES). 


photo In/'] ^Mendelssohn. 

.■MIL MC (JALI.I I^N.XE. 

et deeorani est pro patrla morU And one 
still extant on tlie motto of the Eoyal 
Engineers and Royal Artillery Corps—‘ UUqtie 
Quo Fas et Gloria da cant —a suitable motto 
for those who bear it. The only plan 1 can 
hit upon for discovering the favourite quota¬ 
tions of literary people is to read their works, 
which appears to be the last use to which 
writers are put in the present day. Matthew 
Arnold’s fa^'onrite quotation seems to have 
been, ^ NeJla sua rolontade e nostra pacel 
So j)eihaps I have one, though 1 don’t 
know it.” 

It is a far cry to Indiana, and yet from 
that State there comes a quotation that 
appeals most aptly to the much-rained-upon 
Englishman ! Edwin Caskoden” (Mr. 
Charles Major), whose delightful romance. 
When Knajhihood wa^ in Flna:er, is at the 
present time enjoying one of those phenome¬ 
nally huge sales that America indulges in 
occasionally, bids fair to be as popular an 
author befoi’e long on this side of the 
Atlantic as he is through the length and 
breadth of the United States. Mr. Major 
writes: “ I send you some verses. Wet Weather 
T(dk^ by our Indiana poet, James Whitcomb 
Uiley, my very dear friend. I send you the 
whole poem, but the first verse is the 




304 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



one I specially like, because it breathes a 
sweet philosophy which, if we but live up to 
it, will bring to us all that which we most 
desire—happiness. 

‘ It ain’t no use to grumble and 
complain ; 

It’s jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: 
When God sorts out the weather and 
sends rain, 

W’y, rain’s my choice. 

“ ‘ Men giner’ly, to all intents— 

Altliongh they’re ap’ to grumble 
some— 

Puts most tlieir trust in Providence, 
And takes things as they come ;— 
That is, the commonality 
Of men that’s lived as long as me. 
Has Avatched the world enough to 
learn 

They’re not the boss of the concern. 


I VoiaK k© jo/niMxyuJi 

lbvA> ^CM)€ 

Ux- 

OOM^ 

OYA a/n<^w^cttnto 0^ 

h(m aiv 






Photo />;/] 


MK. COULSOX KERXAHAN. 


“ ‘ With some, of course, it’s 
different— 

I’ve seed men that 

knowed it all, 

And didn’t like the way things 
Avent 

On this terrestrial ball! 

But, all the same, the rain 
some way 

Rained jest as liard on 
picnic-day ; 

Er Avhen they railly Avanted 
it. 

It maybe Avonldn’t rain a 
bit ! 


[./. N. WiUis. 


‘‘ ‘ In this existence, dry and 

Avet 

AYill overtake the best of 
men— 

Some little skift o’ clouds’ll 
shet 

The snn off now and then; 
But maybe, Avhile you’re 
Avondern’ Avho 
You’ve fool-like lent your 
umbrell’ to. 

And want it—out’ll pop the 
sun. 

And you’ll be glad you 
ain’t got none !’ ” 



THE FAVOURTTE QUOTATIONS OF LITERARY PEOPLE. 305 


Mr. Edaiund Gosse is of the opinion that “ It must be very difficult for anyone to say 
what is his favourite quotation or motto ; but,” he adds, “ when I came to this house four 
and twenty years ago I painted on the rafter in my book-room a line from Tibullus— 


“ ‘ Pier Idas fueri dodos et amate looetas^ 

and it is there still. I don’t know any words which express better my aim in life.” 




Madame Sarah Grand writes : “ There 
are times when I cannot say what is my 
favourite quotation, for no sooner have I 
chosen one than twenty others I like equally 
well occur to me; so that my favourite 
quotation to-day will most likely not be 
my favourite quotation to-morrow. The 
truth is, I suffer from a succession of 
favourite quotations. They come to me 
spontaneously d 2 '^^'opos to something of 
public or private interest which happens to 
he going on at the moment, stay so long as 
they are applicable, and then depart. I 
can, therefore, only give you my favourite 
quotation for the time being. It came to 
me for my comfort while I was suffering 
from the hist shock of the cruel and 
cowardly injustice done to Dreyfus, from 
the horror of those atrocious bull-lights at 
Boulogne, and from the chronic pain due 
to a too intimate knowledge of the tortures 
daily inflicted in our midst upon helpless 
animals by the callous vivisector. When I 
thought of these tilings, and of all the 
strength which seems to be expended in 
vain in efforts to relieve suffering, I should 
have despaired once for all of our vaunted 
hiunanity, had it not been for my (present) 
favourite quotation, which seems to say that 
progress marches on always imperceptibly 
in spite of all this— 

“ ‘ For while the tired waves dimly breaking 
Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
Far out, by creeks and inlets waking 
Comes silent flooding in the main ! ’ ” 

Mr. Austin Dobson replied to my query: 
“ My quotations vary with the occasion and the necessity. But I have more than once derived 
a melancholy consolation from the— 

‘‘ ‘ Sjyerate miseri, cavete feJices,'' 

which Goldsmith puts on the title-page of the Vicar of Walcefield.'^ 



Photo hy} 


\_MeniUlssohn. 











THE WINDSOR MAUAZIXE. 


Photo by} {I'otter, Jiidianajiolis. 

MR. ClIARLKS MAJOR (“KDWIN CASKODKX ”j. 

motto: “Perseverance keeps honour briglit”; 
while Miss Ellen Terry’s selection was as 
follows : “ In character, in manners, in style, 
in all things, the supreme excellence is 
simplicity.”— Longfellow— and : — 

“ Modest doubt is called the beacon of the 
wise.” —{Shakespeare. 


Photo by} 




I conclude with 
an allusion to two 
prominent people 
who for a whole 
generation have 
been the mouth¬ 
piece of many of 
the finest thoughts 
of our dramatic 
literature. The 
■quotations were 
given to me two or three years ago, but are 
none the less interesting on that account. 
Sir Henrv Irvins^ gave as his favourite 


Xj^ V. 


iaJI' Uy, 

v3 'wf 




^‘"1 0 




[/{usseli tfc Sons. 







IN THE 
FOOTSTEPS 
CUPID. 

REDERICK DOLMAN. 


( ■^UPID caiiiiofc rival the Devil as a 
j godfather of natural seeiieiy in our 
conn try. Put love and beauty will 
always be found in association, and if we 
follow the footsteps of Cnpid we shall see 
some of the loveliest spots of which England 
can boast. 

The little god lias shown most favonr to 
“ Lovers’ Ijeaps,” of wliich half a dozen or 
more are to be found in various picturesque 
districts. Our Lovers’ Leaps have their 
classical prototype in Leucadia, one of the 
Ionian Islands now called Santa Maura. 
Sappho is said to have thrown herself into the 
sea from tliis rocky promontory when her love 
was rejected by Laon. To this episode, 
which occurred about (>50 b.c., we may, 
perhaps, attribute the first suggestion of 
English Lovers’ Leaps, although not one of 
them can be said at all to resemble the 
site, of Sappho’s rash act, inasmuch as they 
are all situated some way from the sea. 
Derbyshire can rejoice in two, Devonshire 
has an exceedingly pretty one on tlie Dart, 
whilst iu some respects the most noteworthy 
of all is to be discovered on the shores of 
Lake IJllswater. 

The Lovers’ Leap in Sherwood Dell 
is of more modern origin. In a little inn at 
the adjoining village of Stoney Middleton 
which bears the same name you may hear 
the story circumstantially told. In I TOO a 
love-sick maiden of the name of Hannah 
Baddeley, driven desperate by the indiffer¬ 
ence of her beloved, climbed the loftiest rock 
in the dale and threw herself from it. But 
a tree, which broke her fall, sa^'ed her from 
the death she courted. Although crippled, 
she lived to a good old age, a warning 
to the countryside of Cupid’s cruelty. 
Miss Baddeley was buried in the village 


churchyard, and there are those who will 
even undertake to point out her grave. 

There is, it is true, a rival version to that 
told at the Lovers’ I^eap Inn, which refers 
vaguely to some local tradition of an exciting 
elopement. The two runaway lovers, riding 
one horse, are said to have successfully taken 
the leap and thus baffled the pursuit of 
an angry father. This story sounds more 
romantic than the other, and for this reason, 
may be preferred by many. But it lacks 



Pholo hi/ Walmsiey Bros.,} {Amhleside. 

uove:us’ ukaUj aiua-I'Ciuk. 


307 







































808 


THE wiyn^on magazine. 


the Sciine circumstantial detail and can 
hardly survive an inspection of the actual 
spot, which makes it clear that if the two 
dariu<^ lovers did make the leap on horse¬ 
back, only a miracle could have saved their 
necks. Situated at the entrance of what is 
called the Duke’s Drive, about a mile from 
Buxton, is another Lovers’ Leap, a huge rock, 
on a clilf clothed at its sides by ivy and other 
foliage, overlooking a chasm thi’ough which, 
the Wye stream bubbles and hows. 

Sharplow Point, in the Straits or narrowest 
part of Dovedale, has also been called a 
Lovers’ Leap by the inhabitants. To account 
for the name they relate a weird story, in 
which the suicide was a needlessly jealous 
young man ; and several of the precipices 


have legends of accidents some of them 
fatal -attached to them. 

The AYestmorland Lovers’ Tjea]) has a 
story to which Wordsworth has given 
enduring form in his poem, “ The Soin- 
iiambulist ”— 

List, ye who pass by Lyiilph’s Tower 
At eve ; how softly then 
• Doth Aira-Force, that torrent lioarse, 

Speak from tlie woody ^len ! 

Fit music for a solemn vale ! 

And holier seems the i^roimd 
To him who catches on the i^ale 
Tlie spirit of a mournful tale, 

Embodied in the sound. 

Aira-Force is a waterfall—“ force,” it shouk.l 
be said, is a synonym for this word in the 
Lake District—in Gowbarrow Park, on the 
shores of Ullswater, between Pooley Bridge 


and Pacterdale. It lias a height of about 
eighty feet, the water ])roceediug from the 
top over a narrow ledge, dividing at once 
into streams which reunite about half-way 
down. Near the bottom the water dashes 
against a projecting rock, causing a sheet of 
foam and a cloud of spray which in the sun¬ 
light, glinting through the glen, give the 
scene its prettiest eifect. On reaching the 
level ground the rushing Avater becomes a 
transparent stream. 

There once lived at this spot, according 
to the story of the IjOA^ers’ Leap Avhicli 
Wordsworth tells, a beautiful maiden, Avho 
Avas wooed by— 

. . . Barons bold, with stores of gold. 

And knights of high renown. 

She gave her choice 
to Sir Eglamore, 
but before many 
days of SAveet dalli¬ 
ance had passed the 
knight Avas called 
away to the Avars. 
They exchanged 
vows of fidelity. 
Sir Eglamore Avins 
martial glory, but 
after a time the 
lady longs for her 
lover’s return. 
Sleep! ng and Avaking 
she thinks only of 
him, and in her 
sleep she makes 
nightly pilgrimage 
to the spot in the 
glen Avhere they 
parted. Sir Egla¬ 
more at length re¬ 
turns, and ill his 
impatience to behold once more his SAA^eet- 
heart’s dwelling-place Avill not Avait for the 
morn. In the darkness of the AA^ood he 
beholds the maiden’s figure, and for the 
moment AA'onders whether it is she herself or 
only her spectre— 

He touched—what followed who shall tell? 

'I'he soft touch snapped the thread 
Of slumber—shrieking back she fell, 

And the stream whirled her down the dell 
Along its foaming bed. 

In plunged the knight! when on tirm ground 
'file rescued maiden lay. 

Her eyes grew bright with blissful light. 
Confusion passed away; 

She heard, ere to the throne of grace 
Her faithful spirit flew, 

11 is voice; beheld his speaking face. 

And, dying, from his own embrace. 

She felt that he was true. 



Photo by J. Valentine il- Fon.'<,'] IDundee. 

(iAM.ANTKY BOWKU, CLOVKLT.Y. 




Photo by lilampney cfc Son,'] 

LOVERS’ LEAP, ON 


THE DART, NEAR ASHBURTON. 


lAshinrton. 







THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


;no 




Sir Eglainore built himself a cell 
close to the waterfall, and in hermit 
fashion spent the rest of his life 
lamenting. 

The visitor to Harrogate finds 
in his tours from that centre two 
Lovers’ Leaps. One of these 
forms part of the Great Almias 
Cliff, overlooking the valley of 
the Wharfe. On the brow of 
the cliff are numbers of basins 
hollowed in the stone, and sup¬ 
posed to liave been formed by the 
Druids to catch rain-water for 
sacerdotal purposes ; a larger one, 
of parallelogram shape, is said to 
have been used for bathing children. 
They are believed to have given 
the name to the cliff, derived by 
those learned in such matters from 
two Celtic words, ciR “a cliff,” 
and mim, “ an altar.” One of the 
])recipices, known as the Lovers’ 


Photo by JR. W. Thomas,] 


[Chea2)side, E.C, 


THE LOVERS SEAT. 


Photo by F. Frith (f: Co., TAd.,] {^Eeignte. 

WATERFALL, LOVERS’ LEAP, ASH WOOD DALE, NEAR HUXTON. 


Leap, was, in 1760, the scene of 
the attempted suicide of a lovelorn 
village belle, who, nnable to bear 
the slights of her sweetheart, cast 
herself from it. She escaped with 
only a few lunises, a strong wind, 
blowing at the time, having inflated 
her cloak. Learning wisdom, slie 
did not again act so foolishly, 
l)nt lived to a ripe old age at a 
village near, known as Kirkby 
Overljlow. She must have had 
a considerable amount of grim 
humour in the selection of her 
place of residence—if, indeed, it 
was not so named in memory of her 
escapade. 

The other J^overs’ Leap of the 
West Eidiiig is to be found on the 
curious tableland known as Brim- 
ham Rocks. Here, between the 
Boat Bocking Stone and the Druid’s 
Cave is an opening in the rocks 
with three huge stones placed arch¬ 
wise above it. It is on the very 
verge of the precipice, and, ])erhaps, 
received its title from the idea 
that some lovelorn swain may have 
sought the old but cowardly means 
of escape from the “slings and 
arrows of outrageous fortune’' 
which it offers. 

Wales has a Lovers’ I^eap on the 
banks of the Wye, near Chepstow, 
but local tradition makes but 
^'ague attempts to explain the 








IN THE FOOTHTEPS OF ('UP 11). 


Tlje maid, wlicMi slie board tlic gdad tidings, 
Rushed to his bosom with glee. 

She cried, in a passionate transport, 
‘•Kind lioaveii has blessed her decree; 
The stars far above us are smiling, 

And Nature is mad witli delight; 

Tlie day of our joy is approaching, 

A dawn that will never see night.” 


Photo hji W. ]V. Whiter,} 

I.OVKi:s* I,KAI‘, TIIF, STRAITS, DON’KDA I.K. 


iiaine. .More deli iiitc is latter-day kiK^wledge of 
another Welsh ‘Mjeap” near to Llandrindod. 
Passing out of the Iloek Park towards 
Rliydllyndu, a foot])atli runs along* 
the top of the field and enters a 
wood. At the bottom of a shar]) 
declivity flows the silvery Tthon, 
which sweeps round a projecting* 
rock of seiuicircnlar form, called the 
Lovers’ Leap. Tn connection with 
this there is a legend which may be 
gathered from the following lines hy 
a local poet, ^^fr. Edward Jenkins - 

On lonely, craggy headland, 

’Mid woods at twilight hushed, 

A maiden stood dejected. 

Her heart hopes rudely crushed. 

Her da/ed look watched the whirlpool, 

When, lo ! a face showed there. 

And from the brink retreating, 

She fell with deadly fear. 

The spell quickly b;‘.)ken dispelled was 
the trance, 

Her eye had tl:e dash of the sword in its 
glance; 

In madness she pleaded, ‘HOh ! let me 
away ; 

I’m doomed to be drowned en; the breaking 
of day.’’ 

“ No, my darling, hist! and listen,” 

Said a voice so sweet and bold ; 

“ For thy jiarents now have cherished 
Hopes that brighten days of old. 

Hie thee, home, love's welcome Avaits thee, 

Sweet the greeting, sweet the song, 

For the troth Avh'ch holds us captive 
]Melts the sorrow, ends the wrong.” 


From the Devousliire Lovers’ 
Leap is to he enjoyed what is 
generally considered the finest 
view on the Dart. The scene, 
which is near the town of Ash¬ 
burton, is rather similar to that in 
Ash wood Dale, hut is of more im¬ 
pressive dimensions, the wooded 
heights rising much more boldly 
oil cither side of the narrow valley 
of the Dart. The Lovers’ Leap is 
a broken cl iff projecting from the 
wood, “hung with ivy and briar 
rose and crested with mountain 
ash.” Unhappily no one is now 
able to say how the spot came by 
the name, and local invention has 
not apparently come to the rescue 
[Derin/. of tradition, although tlic beauty 
of the whole neiglibourhood is 
such as should inspire romance. 
Devousliire has a sti^ond Lovers’ Leap, 
hut it happens to he called (hdlantry flower. 







812 


THE WINDSOR HAGAZTNE. 


a name wliicli recalls to the tourist one of the 
most memorable of the many beauties of 
Clovelly. It is on a ridge of the cliff, about 
a mile and a half from the quaint little 
village, which rises nearly four hundred 
feet from the sea, with face as straight 
and smootli as a well-planed board. There 
is oidya vague tradition of two lovers aisting 
themselves into the waves from this pre¬ 
cipitous height, and pedants liave ol)jectcd 
that the name is probably a corruption of the 
old Kornu-Keltic, Col-an-veor, meaning a 
“ great ridge.” But most people, as they 
contemplate from the “Bower” a lovely 
view of sea and coast, will prefer to believe 
that an old-world love tragedy is associated 
with, the spot. 

Another Gallantry Bower in Devonshire 
can hardly be described as a Ijovers’ Leap, 
but, on the other hand, the amorous suggestion 
of its name cannot be explained by any 
mere philological expedient. It is a little 
clump of trees on the edge of the upland, 
near Totnes, which is known as llembury 
Camp. The upland is covered l)y thick 
coppice, and below winds the silvery Dart—a 
most agreeable place, in short, for lovers’ 
meetings. As much can be said of the 


Lovers’ Walk at ]\[atlock, althoipgh it likewise 
lacks any legendary interest. This is a zigzag 
path, winding about the sloping banks of the 
Derwent, embowered for the most part in 
rich foliage. The name of Lovers’ Walks 
throughout the countryis of course legion, but 
probably none can eclipse that of Matlock. 

The Lovers’ Seat, near Hastings, is 
undoubtedly to Londoners the best-known 
of all Cupid’s resorts. Few people leave 
the popular pleasure town without visiting 
Fairlight Glen, and of this excursion the 
Lovers’ Seat is usually the most attracti\'e 
feature. A rustic bench upon a ledge of 
rock overlooking the sea at the opening of 
the Glen, the Lovers’ Seat is Avell worthy of 
its name. Secure from surprise, protected 
against the attack of inquisitive eyes, yet 
commanding an expansive view of the sea, 
it may well have been chosen by the 
gallant captain of a revenue cutter as the 
trysting-place for his stolen interviews with 
a Sussex heiress. iVccording to the story, the 
romance ended in a happy marriage, and 
with this wish in their hearts hundreds of 
lads and lasses have since sat together on 
this seat of good omen, and carved their 
names in its stone. 





P LAYING A SUBSTITUTE. 

By Horace Bleackley. 


Illuf^trfftrd Inj A. 


EFORE this 
veracious 
clir 0 nic 1 e is 
placed on record 
it must be 
understood that 
Lady Kitty was 
neither a tom¬ 
boy nor a new 
woman. Most of 
her own sex 
conceded that 
she was a healthy, pretty, and sporting 
English girl. She could swim, ride, and 
fence, and I daresay wrestle or run, with any 
average boy of her own age. 

It fell upon a day in June that her 
noble and gouty father, old Earl Woodthorpe, 
betook himself to an inaccessible health resort 
in the Cambrian mountains, where ])ure air 
and nauseous Avaters work miraculous cures. 
Kitty, attended liy her faithful Miss Minks, 
was the only one of the family to accompany 
him, for one of her brothers was at Sand¬ 
hurst struggling with his Finals, and the 
other was "at Cambridge working hard for 
his cricket Blue. 

Though they had a charming little bunga¬ 
low buried amongst the pines, it must be 
confessed that Kitty found the place dull. 
The season had hardly commenced, and few 
people were about, so she had to take her 
excursions upon her pony and bike generally 
alone. Minks being neither of the age nor 
build for such exercises. 

Of course the scenery around was superb 
—it always is in dull places. The mountain 
torrent, after dashing headlong over boulders 
and through deep, cool gorges, splashing be¬ 
neath ‘Tlevil’s bridges,” and skirting shady 
‘‘lovers’ walks,” suddenly emerged upon a 
grassy, sunlit plain, and became in the fashion 
of its kind a calm and sober matron instead of 
a Avanton, frisky child. Here a beautiful 
reach of crystal Avater made most delightful 
bathing, and here Kitty came for her morn¬ 
ing swim every day at eleven o’clock. For 
at this hour the place Avas consecrated to 
the ladies, and the comfortable boathouse 
contained a dressing-room for their use. It 


Wallis Mills. 

Avas a secluded spot, and noAAdiere in the 
British Isles could Diana have enjoyed more 
privacy. 

Katurally, Minks Avas always Kitty’s batli- 
ing attendant. With camp-stool and novel 
she would take up her position in some leafy 
retreat overlooking the stream and doze in 
peace, Avhile her charge, after a leisurely 
toilet, Avould emerge from the boathouse 
like a young Amazon in a delicious creation 
of AAdiite and pink, and take a header from 
the highest plank. 

It has been said that the eye of man Avas 
forbidden to look upon this scene, but a 
Aveek after Kitty’s arrival there came a day 
—Ave blush to record it—Avheu two bold 
creatures played the part of Peeping Tom. 
Their youth must be their excuse, but avo 
should be the last to urge it, for they Avere 
sad young ruffians —no other than little 
Billy Jones and his brother Taffy, aged 
respectively thirteen and eleven, sons of the 
most notorious poacher in the county. 

“ Why docs she Avear clothes like a lad ? ” 
inquired brother Taffy. 

“ ’Cos she dun no young chaps like you’d 
come a-looking, I reckon,” returned the 
other. “ My golly ! she swims like a otter.” 
V “ What’s she done aau’ her other clothes ? ” 

“ Hush’te, young booby, the old geezer’ll 
hear you. Look at the old gal a-nodding. 
How spiffin’ if she toppled oft’ her perch ! ” 

Poor Minks, overcome by the lieat, had 
not been aroused by the splash of Kitty’s 
dive, and was slumbering thirty yards away. 

“ Hi ! Taf, I’ve got it ! ” added Billy 
in a hoarse Avhisper into his brother’s eai', 
gripping his arm Avith excitement. “ You’ve 
got your sack all right, eh ? ” 

“ Aye, it’s here,” said Taf. “ Wot’s your 
game ? ” 

“Sneak the yonng Avcnch’s clothes!” 
Avhispered Billy. “ It’ll be as easy as winking. 
I’ll stoAV ’em in t’sack in a jiffy. Mammy'll 
be fair crazy. Gals like yon have clothes 
Avorth a pot o’ brass. It’ll keep us all fine 
till dad comes out agin.” 

Three minutes later the Avicked pair were 
slinking through the undergroAvth like foxes, 
dragging a Avell-filled sack betAveen them. 



813 










314 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Minks’s slumbers were long and deep this 
morning. When she did awake ib was with 
a start. 

“ Minks,” came a clear, strong young voice 
from the boathouse. “Minks—I’ve been 
calling you for I don’t know how long.” 

“ Eh, my dear ? —yes,” answered the be¬ 
wildered old lady, wrestling still with sleep. 
“ I heard you, dear. I think I must have 
been wrapped up in my book.” 

“ Minks, it’s an extraordinary thing, but 
I can’t find my clothes anywhere.” 

“ Clothes, dear, clothes ? ” cried the buxom 
Minks, as she toddled towards the boathouse. 
“ But have you looked for them ? ” 

“ Looked for them ! ” echoed Kitty with 
scorn, her face only visible through the open 
door—a beautiful face, tanned by the sun, 
with strong, clearly cut features and bold, 
fearless grey eyes. “ Of course I’ve looked 
everywhere. I want to know where you’ve 
moved them to.” 

“ Moved them ? I’ve never moved from 
my chair.” 

“ Nonsense. Clothes can’t disappear like 
that. You must have done. Come in and 
have a good look.” 

They searched the place thoroughly for a 
quarter of an hour, with the inevitable result. 

“Well, of all the-” began Minks 

slowly. 

“ Nonsense, Minks,” snapped Lady Kitty, 
with pardonable petulance. “ I was in the 
water and you were asleep. Someone must 
have stolen or hidden them.” 

“ I must hurry home and send Jane back 
with some more. Now, dear Lady Kitty, 
promise me to lock the door and stop inside 
till Jane comes. I shall be in a fit all the 
time.” 

“I’ll have to put on those flannels we saw 
in the men’s dressing-room,” remarked Kitty, 
“ or I shall catch my death of cold.” 

Minks could not repress a little scream of 
horror; but consideration for Lady Kitty 
overcame prudery, and she replied— 

“ Of course, dear. 1*11 fetch them for 
you.” 

The flannels included a sweater and a dark 
blue blazer trimmed with gold braid. They 
appeared brand new, and must from their 
size have belonged to a schoolboy. 

“ Why, the thieves have actually over¬ 
looked my stockings ! ” said Kitty, with a 
cry of delight as she espied the articles in 
a corner. 

It would be impossible to imagine a 
prettier boy than Lady Kitty when she had 
assumed her novel costume. Her close, curly 


hair—^the result of an attack of scarlet fever 
during the previous autumn—suited her now 
to perfection. She truly looked a jolly little 
chap of fifteen. 

“ I’ve a good mind to run home through 
the wood just as I am,” she cried with 
girlish glee. “ No one would see me.” 

“ I won’t hear of it, Lady Kitty,” returned 
Minks severely. “ You must wait till 
Jane-” 

“ Yes, I dare say, Minky. I know how it 
will be. You always take half an hour, at 
least, to get home, and that lazy, slow girl 
will be another half hour in coming here. 
That’s an hour. And of course I shall have 
to dress again at home. What time do you 
think it will be when we get to the cricket- 
ground ? And the dog-cart’s ordered at 
twelve. I did so want to be in time for the 
match.” 

If Minks had not been so horrified, it is a 
question whether Kitty would have been so 
hare-brained. And, after all, she was pro¬ 
posing nothing very dreadful, for they rarely 
met anyone l)etween the bathing-place and 
their home, and the path lay through the 
wood the wliole Avay. 

“ This cricket-cap might have been made 
for me,” said Kitty, as she stuck it on the 
back of her head. “ Ta-ta, Minks ! make 
haste after me.’’ 

“No, no, listen-” 

But Lady Kitty had disappeai’ed. 

“ To think that she’ll be eighteen next 
Aveek ! ” murmured ]\links. 

Delighted at her naughty praidv, and 
pei'haps, too, a little scared, Kitty fleAv 
through the cool, silent wood like a young 
faAAii, crashing through the undergroAA^th 
and scattering the rab])its helter-skelter as 
she ran. By avoiding the beaten track, and 
striking in a bee-line for home, she hoped to 
save time and avoid all risk of being seen. 
Never for one moment did she think that 
tliere Avould be any difiiculty in finding the 
Avay. Not until she A\^as quite out ot* breath 
—after a ten minutes’ spurt—did she slacken 
speed. The tall bracken rose up to her 
shoulders, and huge trunks and clusters of 
leafy saplings prevented her from seeing 
more than tAventy yards ahead. The British 
jungle is a very safe and charming place, 
but AAdien it is large and you do not knoAv it 
Avell it is very easy to get lost. So the 
luckless Kitty found, for at the end of half 
an hour she had no idea of Avliere she Avas or 
AAdn’ther she ought to go. It AA^as an ex¬ 
asperating position, and Kitty greAV both 
tired and angry. Presently, as the wood 




PLAYING A SUBSTITUTE. 


815 



began to slope rather abruptly downhill, a 
break in the trees showed her a patch of 
meadow-land beneath her. Anxious above 
all things to escape from her present sur¬ 
roundings, she began to quicken her pace, 
and, careless of the risk of slip or tumble, 
she scampered eagerly down the hill. 

It was the most nnfortnnate thing that 
conld have happened, bnt the trees ter¬ 
minated abruptly, and as she burst through 
the tangled bracken she suddenly found 
herself on the borders of an open field. One 
glance showed her what it was. The smooth, 
mossy turf and the little rustic pavilion told 
that it was a cricket-ground ! And, worse 
still, the cricketers were there, too, and 
one little group a few yards away at once 
caught sight of her. A couple of sturdy 
youths came towards her, and one, brown 


as a berry and 
handsome enough 
to turn any girl’s 
head, gave her a 
hearty slap on the 
shoulder, as he 
exclaimed— 

“ Glad to see 
yon, young ’nn. 
Off with your coat 
—you’re just in 
time. We’ve got 
to field.” 

Before poor 
Kitty realised 
what had hap¬ 
pened, he had 
taken her arm and 
was leading her 
towards the 
pavilion. 

The chief per¬ 
sonages in this 
part of Wales were 
young Sir Thomas 
Tj 1 e w e 1 1 y n , 
Baronet, and old 
Sir liucas Blnndle, 
the millionaire 
shipping man from 
Liverpool. There 
was one thing in 
common between 
them—-a passion¬ 
ate devotion to 
the game of 
ciicket. Sir Tom, 
as he was known 
locally, had been 
captain of his 
’Varsity, and now played for Middlesex. 
Old Blnndle ran the village cricket-team 
at a cost of a thousand a year, at least, and 
watched over it like a father. ^ The old 
gentleman’s talent for arranging interesting 
matches was unique, and his challenge^ to 
play any eleven of ’Varsity men that Sir Tom 
conld bring against him was his latest achieve¬ 
ment. Tom'had taken up the gauntlet^ and 
after some difficulty the. day had been fixed. 
^Middlesex had a vacant date, so three of 
Tom’s colleagues were available, and as 
Yorkshire, too, were not playing, three other 
famous amateurs had ])romised to take part. 
With seven such talented players Tom could 
afford to give the vacant places in his team 
to ordinary college eleven men. It must not 
be imagined that the young baronet was 
bringing down overwhelming strength, for 



























THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


8 If) 


old Sir Lucas had his two sons, hotli in the 
Cambridge eleven, and a couple of pro¬ 
fessional bowlers, retaijied at huge salaries, 
of whom any county Avould have been 
proud, while the rest of his side were sound 
average youngsters who could bat, bowl and 
field, and as game as prizefighters. 

Having a good-sized country house, Tom 
was able to entertain his own team without 
assistance, and the night before the match 
ten of them sat down to a convivial bachelor 
dinner. They had reached the cofi’ee-and- 
cigar stage when a telegram arrived for the 
host. 

From that erratic beggar, Sparks,” he 
explained, as he glanced over it. “Some¬ 
th ing up—can’t come, of course.” 

“ What rot! ” cried the Yorkshire crack, 
keen as mustard always. “ I suppose you 
can find someone else ? Must be a ’Varsity 
man, of course, as you agreed with old 
Blundle.” 

“Well, it’s deuced late,” answered Tom, 
reflecting. “ The only chap about here is 
Haworth, the parson’s boy, who’s at Oriel. 
He’s down at present, but I don’t know him.” 

“Well, can’t we ask him?” inquired the 
enterprising Yorkshireman. “ I’ll stroll over 
with you to his place, if it’s not far.” 

It happened that the Vicarage was not 
more than half a mile away, so, after seeing 
the other men settle down to a game of pool, 
Tom and his friend went forth on their 
errand. It was dark when they arrived at 
the clergyman’s house, and they found his 
son enjoying a cigarette in the garden. 

“ I’m afraid I don’t play cricket much,” 
he answered nervously, when the visitors had 
explained matters. “ You see. I’m a boating 
man. I’m rather keen on coxing our togger 
next year!” 

“ Oh ! but you must play for us,” said the 
gentleman from Sheffield. “ It’s for the 
credit of the ’Varsity, you know, and old 
Blundle’ll give us a ripping lunch.” 

Thus adjured, the young freshman con¬ 
sented. 

The next morning was favoured with per¬ 
fect summer cricket weather. As it was 
only possible to play a one day’s match, it 
had been arranged to start at 11. dO and 
draw stumps at 7. Tom lost the toss, 
and was just about to lead his men into the 
field without the “ boating man,” who had 
not triirned up, wlien the man from Sheflield 
cried out— 

“ There he is ; that’s the Oriel blazer, I 
swear.” For at that moment Kitty had 
suddenly appeared on the scene. 


“ Shouldn’t know the beggar again,” said 
Tom. “Yes, of course, that’s him. He’s 
taken a short cut through the wood.” And 
thus they came to accost the Lady Kitty. 

Then, while Kitty, helpless through fright 
and astonishment, was being led fraternally 
by good-natured Tom to the pavilion. Fate 
willed it that his groom should thrust a note 
into his hands. 

“ Dear Sir Thomas,” he read out aloud, 
“an extraordinary thing has happened. 
My flannels liave been mislaid. I will 
explain when I see you, but I can’t come 
without them, so I cannot be on the field 
until half-past one. I shall be there then 
without fail, and hope I shall be in time. 

“ Yours truly, S. Haworth.” 

“ Hullo, why, you, must have sent this 
to me ? ” he cried, looking down at the 
bewildered Kitty. “ Funny ! I suppose 
you found your flannels afterwards ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s a mistake,” gasped Kitty 
hysterically. 

“ Of course it is; you seem to have got 
’em on all right now,” laughed the Yorkshire¬ 
man. 

Kitty could grasp a, situation as quickly 
as iTiost girls, and, bewildered though she 
was, she realised two things. First, of 
course, that she was taken for somebody 
else, and secondly, that this somebody else 
would not turn up till half-past one. The 
daughter of a dozen earls—sad rascals, many 
of them!—she had no lack of pluck and 
presence of mind, with a fair share of the 
devil-may-care leaven also. Most other girls 
would have fled from the scene in terror, 
u,nd the story of her escapade would have 
been in everybody’s mouth the next day. 

“Now, young man, buck up. The um¬ 
pires are out,” called Tom to her, as he 
led forth his men. 

She had always acted upon the principle 
that one might as well be hanged for a horse 
as a sheep. Escape without detection was 
impossible at present, it might be possible 
later on. Kitty took the risk and followed 
Tom on to the cricket-field. 

Blundle’s team played well, and, though 
none of them made a big score, each man got 
plenty of runs. The total mounted steadily, 
and the luncheon-hour approached. Kitty, 
of course, had been very nervous all the time, 
and the fact tliat she missed two or three 
catches, and found out that the Yorkshire¬ 
man could swear, had not made her more 
comfortable. She was standing at mid-on, 
longing for the time when she could slip 


PLAYING A SUBSTITUTE. 


817 


away unobserved, when she suddenly became 
conscious that the ball Avas coming very hard 
and straight in her direction. Instinctively 
she put out her hands, and there it stuck like 
a glowing red-hot coal. It Avas the little 
stone-Avaller, who liad gone in first Avicket 
doAvn, Avhom she had caught out, and her 
colleagues Avere loud in their applause. 
The next moment she had forgotten her 
smarting fingers as the luncheon-bell rang. 

“Lovely catch !” cried the Sheffield gentle¬ 
man, Avith the generous criticism of a boAvler. 
“ I thought I should get the little beggar to 
land out before long.” 

And he accompanied Kitty toAvards the 


pavilion Avith his hand upon her shoulder, 
and expatiated at length upon the art of 
changing one’s pace without changing one’s 
action. When she had got rid of him, Tom 
came up Avith a few Avords of congratulation, 
and then the hospitable Sir Lucas, AAdio Avas 
bustling about Avith a hot and flaming 
countenance, took possession of her and 
insisted upon escorting her and tAA^o other 
cricketers to the luncheon-marquee. There 
was no chance of escape, and she found her¬ 
self sitting next to Tom at the long table. 
Tom began to make the talk Avith questions 
about Oriel. Being hopelessly ignorant, she 
had to turn the topic at once, so they got 
upon the subject 
of liunting, about 
Avhich she kiiCAv 
as much as he, 
and Avhich lasted 
till the end of 
lunch. 

Unfortunately, 
Tom AAns so inter¬ 
ested in his ncAv 
acquaintance that 
he did not leave 
her until it Avas 
time to begin 
again, so once 
more poor Kitty 
found lierself in 
tlie field. When 
Blundle’s men 
Avere finally dis¬ 
posed of, they had 
made 200 runs 
and it Avas nearly 
four o’clock. 

Kitty put on 
her jacket and 
hoped at length to 
get an opportunity 
of stealing away. 
Presently she 
found herself face 

to face Avith a 

nervous, pale- 
faced, spectacled 
youth of about 
her own height. 
His eyes greAv Avide 
Avith astonishment 
as he looked at her, 
his mouth opened 
as if to s]3eak, then 
shut Avith a click, 
and he slunk aAvay 
abashed. 



“ She found herself face to face with a nervous, pale-faced, spectacled youth.” 














































318 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Instinct whispered that this was the owner 
of the flannels, and she longed for the earth 
to open and swallow her. Turning away 
abruptly she ran into the arms of the York- 
shireinan, who took such a great fancy to 
her that she could not shake him off. 

Tom’s side forced the pace so well that by 
six o’clock they only required tAventy-one 
runs to will. Then three Avickets fell Avith- 
out any addition to the score, and only Kitty 
remained to bat. Tom himself, aaAio aaus 
playing finely, Avas the not-oiit batsman. 

It is probable that no cricketer or cricket- 
ress ever Avalked to the Avickets in such a 
hopeless state of iierAnnsness as did poor 
Kitty. She had positively refused to Avear 
pads, but a bat had been thrust into her 
hand, and after a string of suitable admoni¬ 
tions from the Yorkshireman she had been 
pushed into the arena. Tom strolled to 
meet her. 

‘‘ I say, do keep your end up, old 
cliap,” said he earnestly. “ I shall never 
hear the last of it from old Blundle if he 
licks ns.” 

Alas for the strength of youthful Avoman’s 
Avill Avhen there is a man in the case ! Kitty, 
Avho had come out Avith the fixed determina¬ 
tion of being boAAded l)y the first straight 
ball, noAV actually resolved to do her best. 
It miist be remembered tliat she had been 
brough t up with a couple of brothers, Avho 
had always very properly treated her as an 
equal and a pal, and whose cricket slie had 
shared ever since she could Avalk. Even 
Avhen the boys Avere at school, and the 
famous ‘‘Notts pro.” came to coach them 
at Woodthorpe Castle during the holidays, 
they had insisted upon Kitty taking her 
turn at the nets. So she “ took guard ” 
for leg and middle, and stood up to the 
wicket like a man. 

The boAA'ler was a short, thick-set, red¬ 
headed youth, and his first ball seemed to 
come to her like a shot from a cannon. Her 
eyes closed involuntarily, she set her teeth 
and listened for “ the rattle in the timber- 
yard.” Then came a crash against her bat, 
an approving cry of “ Well played ” from 
Tom, and AA^hen she looked up the boAA’ler 
Avas in the act of stopping the ball as it 
returned to him. The next one, though 
fast and straight, Avas an easy length. Slie 
did not shut her eyes this time, but met it 
AA'ith a firm, straight bat. Tlie magic of tlie 
game had noAv conquered hei‘, and though 
still very frightened she felt happy. The 
third ball and last of the over aaus to leg— 
if ever a girl has a stroke this is the one ! 


Kitty managed to turn in time to touch it 
and it glided away to the boundary. 

Then Tom played a great game for his 
side, and kept the bowling to himself, very 
cleverly scoring a single most appropriately 
at the end of each over, and frequently 
knocking a tAvo or a four at other times. 
So when Kitty’s turn came to bat once more 
three runs only Avere required to Avin the 
match. She had to face the red-headed 
])OAAder again. He had a nasty Ioav action, 
and a knack of coming back quickly from 
the Avicket—a sort of “ boAAd-you-off-your- 
pads ” trick. Poor Kitty had no pads, and 
she had been taught never to move her 
right foot unless to cut, so it is not to be 
Avondered that she received a nasty blow on 
her knee. The fielders Avere sympathetic, as 
they usually are, but as they came up Avith 
kind Avords, or AAdth. offers to rub the Avounded 
limb, they Avere Avaved aAAuy. Kitty bit her 
lip and, sick Avith pain, stood up to the 
])OAAding once more. She had groAvn Aveak 
and her head Avas Avhirling. As she played 
she felt the Ijat tAvist round in her fingers 
AAdien it met the ball, but a second Mev 
there was a shout, for the ball had floAvn 
through the slips straight to the pavilion 
rails. It AA^as a four, and the match AA^as 
Avon ! 

With a delighted grin upon his face Tom 
marched doAvn the Avicket to Avhere Kitty 
stood, and stietclied forth his gloved hand 
for a shake of congratulation. At the same 
moment she reeled, and as she fell forAA^ard 
in a dead faint he AA'as just in time to catch 
her in his arms. The old local doctor, bald- 
headed and benevolent, came forAvard as 
Tom bore his burden to the pavilion, and 
accompanied him into the visitors’ dressing- 
room. The room Avas deserted, for Tom’s 
team had come to the ground in their 
flannels, but a feAv moments later, as three 
or four came to make kindly inquirxes, their 
entrance Avas barred by Tom, his face red 
and flustered. 

“ The doctor says you’re not to come in,” 
he said hurriedly. “ The poor felloAV Avill 
soon be right, but he must have air.” 

And Avhen the man from Sheffield per¬ 
sisted in trying to come in, and Tom told 
him to go to the deuce, there AA^as likely to 
be a roAv. But at that moment a diversion 
occurred, for a stout, hysterical lady charged 
doAvn upon Tom, carried the door at the 
point of her umbrella, and slamming it 
behind her bolted every man Jack of them out. 

^ ^ “ It’s his mother, I think,” exclahned 
Tom, AAffien he had recovered from his 


PLAYING A SUBSTITUTE. 


surprise. ‘‘ Now, you chaps, the drag is at 
the gate, and my man has all the bags. 
You’d better make a start, for we’ve got to 
dine at Bluudle’s at eight sharp.” 

Half an hour later, when Kitty, supported 
on one side by the doctor, and on the other 
by the gallant Minks with open umbrella, 
managed to limp to the doctor’s trap, which 
had been specially ordered, the cricket- 
ground was deserted. Tom only, shy and 
abashed, stood at a respectful distance and 
watched her drive away. Then, just as he 
was getting into his own dog-cart, a small, 
nervous youth ran up out of breath. 

“ Sir Thomas, it’s such a funuy thing 
about my flannels,” he gasped. “I can’t 
imagine—I say, would you mind asking the 
little man in the Oriel blazer-? ” 

Tom did not deign to answer, but his 
looks were murderous, and the little fresh¬ 
man fled in terror. 

One afternoon, ten days later. Lady Kitty 
was lying on the sofa in the little drawing¬ 
room of the bungalow, for her knee still 
required rest. She wore a delicious light 
blue tea-gown, and a tiny shoe and a blue 
silk ankle occasionally peeped forth from its 
folds. 

“ Minks, dear,” she said persuasively, “ do 
you know, I think T could manage a short 
nap,” and after a hasty glance at the clock 
she looked through the open French windows 
down the drive. Minks took the hint and 
departed. Five minutes later a dog-cart 
drove up to the front door, and the footman, 
Avho had heard nothing about the siesta, at 
once ushered the visitor into the drawing¬ 
room. It was Tom, who had never failed to 
put in an appearance to inquire after the 
invalid every day since the eventful match, 
and, strange to relate, he found Kitty looking 


dill 

very sprightly and wide awake. They were 
now great friends. 

“ i saw little Haworth to-day,” he com¬ 
menced after a preliminary greeting. “He 
found his flannels in the cupboard in the 
boathouse, and he thinks some of the village 
boys must have played him a trick.” 

“ Oh ! I’m so afraid he will suspect-” 

began Kitty, blushing. 

“No chance of that. He is horribly 
ashamed of himself for not turning up. I 
gave him a good wigging, and said that 
unless a’Varsity pal of mine-that’s you— 
had come down unexpectedly we should have 
lost the match. So, you see. Miss Minks, 
the dear old doctor, and myself are the only 
people who can possibly know about-” 

“ Oh ! please don’t remind me-” 

“ I’m sorry ; I won’t mention it again if 
you don’t like it,” answered Tom humbly. 

Then, after a moment’s pause, he added 
nervously-- 

“ But you mav have to tell about it some 
day.” 

“ 1 never shall,” cried Kitty. “ Papa 
would-” 

“ I don’t mean him. But when you get 
mari’ied I ” 

Kitty was Idushing furiously. 

“ After all,” said Tom, speaking slowly, as 
if feeling for the words, and blushing also, 
“ it seems a pity that anyone else should get 
to know ! ” 

And as Kitty glanced up their eyes met. 

The fresh air and mineral waters of the 
Cambrian mountains must have benefited 
old Lord AVoodthorpe, for a few months later 
he was able to march up the aisle at St. 
George’s, Hanover Square, as sprightly and 
dapper as any of them, to give his daughter 
away to Sir Thomas Llewellyn. 







G:be dfirst Xcsson. 

FliOM THE Picture by PEiiCY Taiirant. 












A TRAVELLER F^sT 
THE AIR: 



riiuto by Debenhani & Co.y York. 


F rom time immemorial the problem 
of aerial navigation lias exercised an 
immense fascination over mankind 
in general. Many have devoted their 
whole lives and expended vast fortnnes in 
the vain hope of being able to reduce it 
to a formnlated science. Yet, despite the 
centuries of toilsome research and disappoint¬ 
ing experiments, the atmosphere still refuses 
to be governed in its movements by man, 
and all endeavours to travel contrary to the 
inclinations of the wind have resulted in 
inevitable disaster. But man is, after all, a 
most dogged and persevering animal. Con¬ 
stant, hopeless failures only serve to stimulate 
him to further efforts. Although no aerial 
vessel has yet been devised tliat will place 
the wind at defiance, and thus establish 
another highway for travel, one lias been 
constructed that will at any rate float in the 
aerial ocean, and will follow in the course 
of the wind with every assurance of safety. 

It was not until late in the eighteenth 
century—1788—that such a vessel Avas first 
launched. Two brothers named Montgolfier, 
paper manufacturers at iVnnonay, in France, 
constiTicted a large paper bag, and inflated it 
with hot air and smoke from a hre of straw. 
Directly the bag was released it flew skywards 
and remained poised in the atmosphere until 
theair Avith which it had been inflated cooled 
and condensed to such an extent that it was 
no lighter than the air in wliich it floated, 


A CHAT WITH MR. PERCIYAL 
SPENCER. 

By FiiEHERiOK A. Talbot. 

when, fulfilling the laws of gravitation, it of 
course dropped to the earth. It Avas only a 
primitive experiment, but it sent a thrill of 
excitement through the AAdiole of the civilised 
Avorld, and aerial navigation Avas now con¬ 
sidered vn fait acco))i])li. But more Avas to 
follow. Seventeen years previous to the Alont- 
golfiers’ triumphant success Henry Cavendish 
discovered that liydrogen gas is 14*4() times 
lighter than the air we breatlie. Professor 
Black, of Edinburgh, developed this revela¬ 
tion by filling a bag Avith hydrogen, and 
enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing the inflated 
receptacle rise to the ceiling of his room. 
Other experimenters subjected Cavendish’s 




MK. STANI.KY SPK.NX’Eli, WHO ASOENDEI) TO 27,500 
FEET WITH DR. 15EUSON. 

Photo by Russell <& Sons, Baker Street, W. 







THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 





discovery to 
a far more 
exacting test. 

The brothers 
Robert and 
M. Charles 
constructed a 
balloon of 
sufficient size 
to carry two 
persons, 
filled it Avitli 
hyd r 0 g e 11 , 
ascended at 
Paris, traA’el- 
led thirty 
miles througii 
the air, and 
successfully de¬ 
scended Avithout any 
injury befalling 
them. 

Although more 
than a century has 
passed since these 
pioneers reduced the 
theory of aerial 

travelling to a pos¬ 
sibility, the balloon 
of to-day differs but 
little from that in 
Avhich they con¬ 
ducted their experi¬ 
ments. Naturally 

the rapid strides of 
science have re¬ 

sulted in a perfect¬ 
ing of the various 


INefjretii c& Zainbra. 


GENKKATING Till-: HYDROGEN FOR DR. BERSON’s ASCENT. 


appliances used ; 
but, apart from 
this, the balloon of 
to-day, like that of 
1788, is simply an 
abject slave of the 
air.' 

The only im¬ 
portant discovery 
of the nineteenth 
century in connec¬ 
tion Avith aerosta¬ 
tion Avas that of 
Mr. Charles Green, 
Avho found that the 
ordinary domestic 
coal gas, though 
tAvice the density 
of hydrogen gas, 
Avas suffici¬ 
ently satis¬ 
factory for 
all practical 
purposes. It 
Avas a A’alu- 
a b 1 e dis¬ 


covery, 
l)ecause coal 
gas is much 
more con¬ 
venient and 
economical 
than hydro- 


gen. 

Although 
the study of 
aerostation 
is i 11 d u - 








A TRAVELLER TN THE AIR. 





bibably attractive, tlic immljer of aeronautical 
experts tliroiigliout the world may almost be 
counted upon the lingers of the hands. 
Perhaps the most eminent of these are the 
three brothers Spencer—Percival, x^rthni*, 
and Stanley. Their ascents in all parts of 
the world, from China to Pern, may be 
counted by thousands, and at times their 
experiences have been 
decidedly exciting. Yet, 
despite hairbreadth escapes, 

Mr. Percival Spencer has 
assured me that he never 
feels so safe as when travel¬ 
ling through tlie air in a 
balloon. 

Percival Spencer, who is 
the eldest of the three 
brothers, may yet be counted 
a young man. He is most 
enthusiastic over his 
favourite pastime, and is 
never weary of discoursing 
upon aeronautics, xis to the 
atmosphere, there is little he 
does not know about its 
peculiarities, movements, 
and variations. When ques¬ 
tioned as to what induced 
him to devote his energies 
to this unusual profession, 
he laughingly replied— 

“ Well, I suppose it is 
what many people would 
term ‘ hereditary instinct.’ 

You see, my fatlier was an 
aeronaut, and my grand¬ 
father before him. The 
latter, in the year 1837, ac- 
com])anied the veteran bal¬ 
loonist Mr. Charles Green 
on many trips through the 
air. I was consequently 
initiated into the mysteries 
of aerostation very early in 
my life, and, from my own 
experiences in the air, I 
think it would be difficult to 
discover a more entertaining 
field for scientific research. 

“No,” he continued in 
answer to my query ; “ I have never met witli 
an accident. Of course, one cannot make over 
a thousand ascents into the air without passing 
through a few exciting experiences. I re¬ 
member on one occasion I was I’equested by 
the Dutch Government to conduct surveys 
from aloft, for military purposes, of the 
province of Atcheen, in Sumatra. The 


hostile natives, either terrorised by such 
an apparently supernatural ol)ject floating 
through the air, or fully cognisant of our 
intentions, opened a warm fusillade upon 
us, and to save the balloon from being 
riddled we had to ascend to a height that 
placed us beyond tlie reach of the" natives’ 
fire.” 


For the purpose of scientific research in 
the atmosphere the balloon has rendered in¬ 
valuable service, and it is difficult to conceive 
how our savants would have gleaned so much 
information concerning the ether had it nob 
been for the inventive genius of the brothers 
Montgolfier. Several high ascents have 
been made for this purpose. 










THI^] WTNDSOIl MAGAZINE. 


;524 


Ill 1802, Messrs. Coxwell and Glaislier, 
under the jiresidency of tlie British Associa¬ 
tion, ascended to tlie tremendous height of 
29,000 feet at AVolverhampton. These two 
aeronauts also claim to have attained an 
altitude of 87,000 feet—about seven miles — 
but this statement seems open to question. 
Even to-day many scientists contend that 
the aeronauts must have made an error in 
their calculations. From the reports of the 
aeronauts themselves, it was evidently an 
adventurous and memorable ascent. At 
20,000 feet Mr. Glaislier was rendered in¬ 
sensible, and when the maximum height 
v;as attained Mr. Coxwell lost the use of his 
hands, and was compelled to pull the valve¬ 
line with his teeth in order to descend. 

At the Crystal Palace, recently, Dr. Berson, 


the (piantity. For instance, it re([iiires 1,000 
cubic feet of coal gas to lift about thirty-hve 
])onnds, but exactly the same measurement 
of hydrogen will suffice to raise seventy 
pounds. 

“ AVhen we made onr aerial trip we in¬ 
flated onr balloon, which was of ofhoOO cubic 
feet capacity, with only 80,000 cubic feet of 
hydrogen. Then as the balloon rose and the 
gas naturally expanded, there was still avail¬ 
able 20,500 cubic feet of space inside the 
silken bag to be filled before any hydrogen 
overflowed through the nozzle of the balloon.” 

Some idea of the costly nature of inflating 
a balloon with hydrogen may be gathered 
from the fact that Dr. Berson’s ascent cost 
over £100. Special elaborate apparati for 
generating the necessary gas had to be con- 



THE TWO BALLOONS AT THE YORK GALA. 


a famous meteorological scientist of the Berlin 
Observatory, who has projected several scien¬ 
tific observations from the balloon, made an 
ascent with Mr. Stanley Spencer. They 
reached a height of 27,500 feet—that is, over 
five miles high. This is the greatest height 
that has ever been registered in this country 
since the ascent of Messrs. Coxwell and 
Glaishei*. Dr. Berson, however, has reached a 
greater altitude than this, for on one occasion, 
in Berlin, the balloon rose to 80,000 feet. 

“ Our ascent,” said ]\;Ir. Stanley Spencer, 

Wiis accomplished under the most favour¬ 
able conditions. In this case our balloon 
was inflated with hydrogen. Of course, this 
medium is very expensive in comparison Avith 
coal gas ; but then it is only about half the 
density, and, therefore, you need only half 


veyed to the grounds from Avhich the ascent 
Avas made. The hydrogen is generated by the 
decomposition of sulphuric acid by means of 
iron. Six tons of sulphuric acid and four tons 
of iron shavings Avere consumed on this occa¬ 
sion to manufacture the necessary quantity 
of hydrogen. The moduf^ operandi is as 
follows : The acid is placed in a taidv Avith a 
c[uantity of iron and Avater. The chemical 
action at once proceeds Avith great rapidity, 
and the hydrogen passes off into another 
chamber in a A*ery heated and impure state, 
Avhere it is purified by passing through fresh 
cold Avater and afterwards dried by being 
passed through a vat filled Avith unslaked 
lime, after Avhicli it is conveyed through the 
hose-pipe into the balloon. 

“It Avas two o’clock when Ave left the 



A TRAVELLER IN THE AIR. 


825 


Crystal Palace,” said Mr. Spencer, in reply 
to my request for a description of his voyage. 
“Owing to the delicate nature of Dr. Person’s 
meteorological instruments, they were slung 
from the network of the halloon, so that the 
heat radiated from our bodies miglit not 
affect their careful adjustment and correct¬ 
ness. We rose very rapidly and travelled in 
an easterly direction. This was not quite 
what we desired, as tlie wind was carrying us 
towards tlie sea, and although we were fully 
equipped with lifebuoys in case of an emer¬ 
gency, we did not anticipate an immersion 
in the North Sea with any degree of pleasure. 
Fortunately, at 10,000 feet we ascended into 
another current of air travelling south-west. 
This quite coincided with our expectations, 
and Dr. Person at once commenced his 
experiments. 

“At 20,000 feet high the hydrogen had 
expanded to the ntinost capacity of the 
balloon, and ballast was discharged to con¬ 
tinue the n])ward momentum. The air was 
extraordinarily clear, and at 28,000 feet we 
could discern the coast of France, a large 
expanse of the English Channel covered with 
diminutive dots, which were in reality the 



AT YORK TWO RAl LOONS WKIIE TO ASCEND. THE 
FIRST RALEOON, IN RISINO, (JOEETDED WFIII THE 
OTHER— 



— RUT NO DAMAGE RESULTED. 


numerous vessels passing up and down, and 
the whole stretch of the east coast from 
Dover to the Wash. Still we continued to 
ascend, but the air became intensely cold, 
though we were protected with heavy woollen 
clothing. 

“ We looked at our barometer. It regis¬ 
tered 25,000 feet—a vertical distance of 
nearly five miles. At this point a giddy 
sensation overcame me, and I found it diffi¬ 
cult to breathe in the rarefied atmosphere. 
Dr. Person, who was busily immersed in 
his meteorological surveys, gurgled as he 
breathed. ‘Oxygen,’ he gasped, and I at once 
handed him the mouthpiece connected with 
the cylinder of compressed oxygen which we 
carried so as to retain our vitality in the 
rarefied air, while I utilised the other my¬ 
self. As we inhaled the pure oxygen gas the 
giddiness was dispelled, but whenever I re¬ 
moved the tube from my mouth the same 
indescribable sensation of asphyxiation over¬ 
came me. The barometer registered 27,500 
feet—more than five miles high, and only 
1,500 feet short of the previous English 
record—before the balloon gained her equi¬ 
librium. I may mention in passing that 
at this enormous height the atmosphere 
is only about one-third the density it is on 






THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


826 




TllK GALA GltOl NDS AT YOHK AS SKKN THOM A liAM.OON. 

Observe the second balloon, nenrhf fnJl, the three roundabouts, hand-stand, 
show-tents, and the niidf/ei-lihe spectators all over the field. 


the surface of the earth, the haronieter staiul- 
iiig at ten inches, whereas it rises to thirty 
inches on the ground. 

“We had only 
four hags of ballast 
remaining in the 
cal’, and, as these 
were necessary to 
ensure a safe des¬ 
cent, I pulled the 
valve-line {ind wx‘ 
rapidly fell through 
the air—in fact, we 
descended at such a 
tremendous rate that 
I had to cast over¬ 
board all our ballast 
in order to reduce 
our speed. We 
landed safely, how¬ 
ever, at Itomford, 
sixteen miles from 
the Crystal Palace, 
after having re¬ 
mained in the air 
for about ninety 
minutes. Curiously 
enough, when we 
disembarked, there 
was not snlhcieiit 
gtis in the lialloon to 
keep it up.” 


“ Do you consider, from your 
success on this particular occasion, 
that a greater altitude might be 
safely attained in a balloon ? ” 

“ (/crtainly ; I have not the least 
doubt that had we been provided 
with a larger balloon we might have 
exceeded Cox well and Claisher’s 
record of 20,000 feet. The ascent 
])roved valiial)le in many ways. In 
the hrst place, from our ex])eriences 
it was clearly demonstrated tliat the 
claim formulated by those gentlemen 
of having attained an altitude of 
87,000 feet is quite untenable. They 
were not pro^’ided with compressed 
oxygen to facilitate breathing. Now, 
there is no doul)t that had we not been 
equi])])ed with oxygen, we should have 
been rendered unconscious at 27,500 
feet ; and if at this height such an 
event occurred, what would ha])pen at 
87,000 feet ? The balloon in which 
Coxwell and Glaisher attained their 
2i),000 feet was of 80,000 cubic 
feet capacity, but then it was only 
inflated with ordinary coal gas. 
a balloon of loo,000 feet, 1 think 
gr(‘atei’ altitude might he safely 


A HUGE CKOWl) WATCHING AN ASCENT AT WOEVEKIIAMPTUN FI.OKAI, FETE. 


4 TRAVELLER Ii\ THE AIR. 


327 


reached, provided, of course, oxygen were 
garried, as it would be absolutely impossible 
to live ill the liighly rarefied atmosphere of 
such a region.'’ 

Such a lessel as IMr. Spencer describes 
would cost about £5()() to construct; but 
when it is remembered the vast fields open 
to aeronautical research, and the fame that 
awaits any valuable development, surely such 
a small sum should l)e speedily forth¬ 
coming. 

Mr. Percival Spencer has made ascents in 
most parts of this country, and we are 
enabled to reproduce photographs taken by 


at the minute of embarkation, Mr. Pollock 
—nephew of the celebrated Baron Pollock— 
who is an enthusiastic amateur aeronaut, and 
who had previously crossed the Channel by 
balloon, walked up to Mr. Spencer and 
suggested tliat as the wind was blowing in 
a dii'ection propitious for a cross-Channel 
voyage, they slionld attempt the feat. 

‘‘ Although the balloon was small, being 
only of 36,000 cubic feet capacity, and we 
were in nowise equipped for such a special 
trip,” remarked Mr. Spencer, “ the wind 
was Idowing nortli-west at the time ; and as 1 
was in the spirit for sncli an adventure, I 



THE CITY OE YOIiK, SHOWINIi THE OI-D WAI.E, EOOTHAM r.AU, AND THE MINSTEK, EUOM AN 

AETirUDE OE 500 EEET. 


him from the balloon on tlie occasions of its 
ascents from York and A\^olverhampton, as 
well as those of his Crystal Palace start. 
Mr. Spencer has accomplished one or 
two notable achievements in connection 
with long-distance ballooning. The longest 
journey he has made through the air is loO 
miles, but he has often ti’avelled over 100 
miles, as, for example, on his three trips from 
the Crystal Palace to Prance. The last 
occasion on wliicli lie accomplished this re¬ 
markable performance was on July 20tli of 
last year. On that day Mr. Spencer liad 
com])ieted arrangements to accompany two 
gentlemen on an aerial excursion. Almost 


hurriedly postponed the voyage for my 
quondam passengers, and we set off. 

“ It was half-past two in the afternoon 
when we ascended Itoiu the Crystal Palace 
grounds. The balloon travelled at a moderate 
rate of speed, and from our observations 
of the \'arions landmarks we moved in the 
ideal direction. Sevenoaks was passed over in 
an lionr at an altitude of 2,000 feet, but we soon 
rose to 0,000 feet. The day was particularly 
warm, and the heat radiated from the sun’s 
rays caused the gas in the balloon to expand, 
while the clouds below kept cool the strata 
of air in which they moved, and thus pre¬ 
vented our descent into them. 








328 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


“ TuiiLridge Wells was dnlj crossed, and 
at half-past four the English coastline was 
visible through the clouds iminediatelj in 
front of us. Only ball’ an hour was left to 
decide whether we should descend on the 
English coast or should continue tlie voyage. 
The wind still hlcAV from the north-west, the 
balloon maintained its altitude, and we had 
three hundredweight of ballast in hand—in 
fact, everytliing augured for a pleasant pas¬ 
sage. Under tlie circumstances we decided 


to attempt the crossing. At 0.3 p.m. Hast¬ 
ings and St. Leonards Avere left behind, 9,000 
feet below, and in a short time the English 
coast Avas blotted out from vieAv by the clouds. 
Now there AA^as notliing to guide us on our 
journey. The silence Avas oppressive. The 
waters of th(‘ (diannel Avere spread out heloAV 
us, and a])])eared dai’k, desolate, and un¬ 
tenanted. 

“ Mr. Ihjllock Avas the first to discern the 
outline of the French coast dimly visible on 


the hoi’izon. AVc Avatched it Avith concen¬ 
trated intensity. Should Ave reach it? That 
Avas the question uppermost in onr minds. 
At seven o’clock Ave had dropped to 7,000 
feet, hut Ave seemed to make slow pro¬ 
gress toAvards our destination. Difficulties 
noAV beset us. AYe had almost exhausted 
our supply of ballast, and the heat from 
the setting sun’s rays AA^as decreasing in 
pOAA^er, so that the gas began to condense 
rapidly and the balloon to descend. It Avas 
imperative, hoAvever, tliat Ave should 
maintain our equilibrium at all costs, 
and Ave threAV over the bags in Avhich 
the ballast had been carried. At 
half-past seA^en Ave had risen to 
10,000 feet, and Avere being borne 
sloAvly oiiAvards toAvards our goal. Na 
could distinguish a Avide estuary on 
the loAA'-lying French coast, Avhich 
Mr. Pollock recognised as the mouth 
of the Eiver Somme. 

“At a quarter to eight, although 
Ave had cast all extraneous Aveight 
overboard, Ave saidv rapidly to 8,000 
feet, and Irrrd firma Avas some ten 
miles distant. The question Avas, 
Should Ave rea(di the coast or should 
Ave drop into the sea ? The balloon 
gradually saidv loAver and loAver. 
There AA^as only the heaA’y grapnel, a 
mass of seventy pounds of steel, noAV 
remaining in the car. AVe cast this 
OA^erboard, and the balloon speedily 
ascended to a height of 12,000 feet, 
AA’hich Avas the greatest altitude 
recorded during the voyage. But 
AA'e only remained poised at this 
height for a feAv moments, and 
then fell thi’ough the air at about 
oOO feet per minute. I slung the 
camera AAdiich I carried on the expe¬ 
dition up in the rigging, so that the 
lilms should not be damaged by the 
Avater, for on such adventurous 
A'oyages as this one has to be prepared 
for any emergency that may arise. 
“AAT‘ continued falling till the height 
Avas about 0,000 feet; but now our fears Avere 
all dispelled, for Ave Avere floating over the 
land. Pj‘e]>arations Avere iioav hurried for- 
AA^ard for our descent. At eight minutes 
past eight in the evening Ave safely landed at 
Woincourt, inidAvay betAveen Dieppe and 
Treport, and one and a half miles inland. It 
had taken about liA C and a half hours to 
accomplish the journey fi’om the Crystal 
Palace, at an average speed of tAventy miles 
an houi-.” 



.MU. I’KI.’CIVAL SI*P:N(’I-:u and mu. rOIJ.OCK LEAVIN<; T!IK 
CUYSTAI. I'Al.ACK FOU FUANCK. 



A TRAVELLER LX THE AIR. 





'I IIK ('in'STAl. PAI-ACi:, KPOM AN AI/nTri)K OK ABOUT 500 KKKT. 


Our conversation then turned to the Andree to lift the veil snrronnding that 
absorbing topic of ballooning to the North mysterious region by means of the aerial 
Pole, and the bold attempt made by Herr vessel. 



IIASTIN(;S AND ST. lACONAliDS, 9,000 KKKT JiKUOW. 















330 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


“When Andree first came to England,” 
said Mr. Spencer, “ he paid me a visit, and we 
had an entertaining conversation on the possi¬ 
bilities of reaching the Pole by balloon. Andree 
was most confident of success. Certainly his 
theories were brilliant, bnt I am afraid that 
when reduced to actual working order would 
be found to be almost impracticable.” 

“ Do you think there is no prospect of 
Andree’s returning ? ” 

“ 1 am afraid not, Xothing has been 
lieard of him ; and as tliree Arctic winters, 
with their six months’ darkness, have passed 
by, I think Andree and his brave companions 
have shared the fate that has attended so 
many expeditions wliich have attempted 
to explore the Polar Eegions. Then, again, 
there were the reports that remains of the 
balloon and three bodies had been discovered 
by the Tunguses, a native tribe inhabiting 
the Taimur Peninsula, in Northern Siberia. 
So circumstantial were the descriptions con¬ 
tained in tlie telegrams from Kras Noyarsk 
that I had little doubt myself but that 
they referred to the unfortunate explorers.” 

“ Then do you consider it is impossible to 
reach the lk)le by balloon ? ” I inquired. 


“ By no means. In fact, I think it is the 
only way by which the Pole will ever be 
gained. But, instead of attempting the whole 
journey by balloon, I think the latter should 
be attached to an expedition which should 
push on as far towards the Pole as possible, 
establish headquarters at the most northern 
point for the winter, so that the crew may 
become acclimatised, and then set off with 
the first wind blowing from the south in the 
following spring or summer. I think 
the balloon should be of sufficient size to 
c;arry the weight of a complete sledging 
expedition—of two men, with necessary 
sledges, dogs, ammunition, fuel, and victuals. 
With this load the balloon could set forth, 
and the Pole would be reached in about 
thirty-five hours. The aeronauts would then 
descend at the Pole, would abandon the 
balloon, and the return journey to the 
headquarters would have to he accomplished 
on sledges. One important suggestion is 
that the gas should be carried in compressed 
cylinders, and not manufactured on the spot, 
as in the Andree case. This would enable 
tlie balloon to be inflated at any moment in 
a very few hours.” 



TIIK c;KOWI) that AVITNKSSKI) MK. SPP'.XCKIl’s DKPARTUHK TJIK CRYSTAL 

PALACE FOR FRANCE, AS SEEN FROM THE liALLOON. 






X T was a choppy sea in the Hay of fhscay, 
and the good sliip Lan -elot was thinnp- 
ing lier heart out to keep up tlie 
contract speed of ten knots an hour. She 
hailed from Sunderland, and was at present 
loaded with a cargo “miscellaneous” for 
Melbourne. 

The captain’s wife was very sea-sick. She 
was a Northampton lass, and at Northampton 
yon don’t get enougli nautical experience to 
warrant you free from heartache, going from 
the Channel to the Bay. OF course, she 
hadn’t thought of that when slie married the 
skipper ; ])ut she had plenty of time for any 
such reflection now, as she lay in lier bunk 
and groaned. 

On the sofa at the side of the cabin was 
the “ old man.” He looked ill enough to be 
sea-sick, too, for sea-sickness among seamen 
is not so uncommon as you would think it 
ought to be ; but he was only drunk. 

(Iradually into the monotony of their 
double breathing tliere came another sound, 
the clamour of a crowd, a single but emphatic 
protestation, a scuffle and the tread of many 
feet, and the door of the cabin was thrown 
violently open, and, the vessel helping with a 
lurch, half a dozen men came tumbling in. 
The skipper’s wife closed her eyes again, the 
skipper did not move. Then the steward 
spoke. 

“ Now, then,” he said ; “ now, as yon’ve all 
pushed your way past me, say what you want 


to the old man ’imself, and say it quick, 
before I throw you all out again.” 

The half a dozen had increased to fourteen ; 
the steward had not stopped to reckon the 
odds. 

“ Talk to ’im ? ” said an able-l)odied seaman 
in a ])lue jersey. “ Might as well talk to a 
log of wood.” 

“Then, if you’ve got nothing to say,” said 
the steward, who hailed from Liverpool, 
Avhere they make them little, but tough, 
“get out of it and get for’ard, Avdiere you 
belong.” 

And, his Liverpool birth and education 
getting the better of him, he started support¬ 
ing his advice by physical argument. He 
might have got through alive—lie had a 
dog’s chance tliat Avay, anyhow ; but luckily 
for him he didn’t have to take it. For the 
skipiier’s wife opened her eyes. 

Then she saw the crowd. “Good after¬ 
noon,” she said, as pleasantly as possilile. 

No one answered ; but they paused in 
thei]’ extermination of the steward. 

“ Is their anything I can do for you ? ” 
she asked feelily. 

“ ’Cause, if not,” urged the steward, as 
impressively as partial strangulation would 
allow, “ you’d l)etter clear out to your own 
end of tile ship.” 

Still no one answered, not even to the 
steward. 

“ I don’t know what you want,” said the 


331 



















B32 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


skipper’s wife, ‘‘ and I slioiild feel it a favour 
if yon wouldn’t mind telling me.” 

“ It’s him we want,” explained the able 
body ill the jersey. 

“ Oh, do please let poor Richard alone,” 
pleaded his wife. ‘‘ He has only just come off 
duty and is trying to get a little sleep.” 

“ Only just come off ? ” said another of 
the crowd. “ He’s been like that these three 
days. And we ain’t a-taking any more, so 
there ! ” 

‘‘ Mutiny,”commented the steward—“ that’s 
the name for it; and it’s six months’ hard 
labour, according to the Act.” 

‘‘ Well, call it mutiny, if you like,” said 
another. “ We ain’t goin’ to sail under him 
any longer, that’s what it comes to. And so 
we tell ’im, don’t we, mates ? ” 

The mates said they did ; but they were 
mistaken, for the skipper did not hear a 
single word. He was snoring. 

“ We Avant a proper officer, we do,” 
exclaimed the first mutineer. ‘‘ Not a thing 
like that. He’s been drunk ever since we 
left port, he has.” 

The skipper’s Avife turned paler still ; the 
air Avas strong Avith rum. Then she flushed 
red. 

“You are a liar,” she said calmly. “My 
husband has fatigued himself too much and 
is ill.” 

“ That’s all very well,” Avas the sullen reply. 
“ While he’s lying there, a bloomin’ iiiA^alid, 
Avho’s going to take command of the boat ? ” 

The skipper’s Avife Avas on her feet next 
moment ; she turned and faced the croAvd. 
An inspiration came to her. AnsAA^ering 
sloAAdy, and as if the ansAver Avere quite natural 
—“/am,” she said. “ AYhile my husband is 
ill I take his place. I am commander ! ” 

For a moment the situation Avas critical ; 
the steAvard moved up betAveen her and the 
men, to be a sort of bufiPer Avhen the rusli 
should come. The Avoman still faced the 
croAvd, Avith nostrils that quivered, but lips 
set firm. 

A clean-shaven man, in a red shirt and a 
fancy pair of braces, stepped out from the 
others. 

“ So you are, lady,” he said, jerking his 
hand and ducking his head to form a 
respectful salute. “ So you are ; and I sails 
under yer.” 

And he took up a position alongside the 
steAvard. The balance Avavered. 

“ Fin Avith you. Cockney,” said the “ l)oy,” 
a, strapping young bargee, Avho had never 
steered a steamer, and so had signed on 
“ ordinary seaman.” 


The balance Avent Avell over. 

“ And credit it does to you, mum,” said a 
recruit from Yarmouth, groAvn tired of 
herring-fishery ; “ and I makes another.” 

A dozen of the mutineers took off their 
caps ; the “ commander ” just smiled. 

“AYell,” she said, more particularly to the 
man in the blue jersey, “ AAdiat made you 
bring all these men here and upset us all 
like this ? ” 

“ I didn’t bring ’em here,” protested the 
person referred to, in full retreat. “ I Avasn’t 
lookin’ to'be cap’n, anyAA^ay you put it.” 

“ Then, Avho Avas ? ” asked the commander, 
scenting neAvs. 

He did not ansAver. Still, there AA^as no 
need ; the others did for him. “ Jorgensen,” 
explained the chorus. 

“ And who’s Jorgensen, if you please ? ” 
Avas the polite rejoinder. 

“ The second mate,” said the steAvard, 
speaking very loud—“ Avhat is noAV in the 
alley-Avay, trying to sneak out.” 

Somebody found time to intercept him, 
hoAveA^er, and to lead him in. A lanky SAvede 
appeared, looking very uncomfortable. 

“Cood afternoon, Mr. Jorgensen,” Avas 
his greeting. “ I don’t thiidv it at all nice 
of you, you knoAV, carrying on like this. 
Aren’t you very sorry for Avhat you’ve done ? ” 

“ Yes,” confessed Mr. Jorgensen, and he 
looked as if he meant it. 

“ Then there’s my hand,” said the skipper’s 
AA’ife, “ and Ave’ll say no more about it.” 

“ Noav,” she Avent on, “ all of you get back 
to your places. I am going on the bridge.” 

They all Avent out. And the skipper’s 
Avife, in another flash of inspiration, proceeded 
to put on the skipper’s cap and oilskins. 

“ SteAvard ! ” she cried. 

“ One moment, mum,” Avas the ansAver 
from the alley-Avay. “I’m just polishing 
up.” It seemed to be the blue jersey man 
he AA'as polishing up ; and he seemed to be 
making an exceptionally good job of it. 

The skipper’s Avife turned to the skipper, 
turned and stooped and kissed liiin on the 
lips. Then Avith a great effort she lifted 
him in her arms and carried him to her 
bunk, laid him there as gently as if he Avere 
a child, covered him Avith a rug, kissed him 
again, and crept aAvay. 

And then she AA^alked forAvard Avith as much 
dignity and grace as the i-olling of the vessel 
AA’ould permit. In the chai’t-house she 
found the first mate—in irons. 

“ flood gracious ! ” cried the ski])per’s Avife, 
“ Avhatever have you been doing ? And Avho 
are you ? ” she added as an afterthought. 



For ji inonieut the situation was critical. ’ 






834 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


“ I’m first mate,” lie answered apolo¬ 
getically ; “ name, Tom Drake. They 

knocked my hat off, so I can’t show you 
the three stripes, but I’m first mate all 
the same.” 

“ Yes, but those dreadful-looking things 
round your wrists ? ” asked the skipper’s 
wife in dismay. 

“ Oh, yes, the bilboes,” explained Tom 
Drake. “ That was Jorgensen. When they 
mutinied, I got on the bridge with a 
belaying-pin. I downed two of the dogs, 
and I’d have got ’em all under, only Jorgen¬ 
sen—who, of course, I didn’t suspect, being 
an officer—came up behind and collared 
me.” 

Jorgensen had come up behind again and 
was grinning in the doorway. 

“You bad, wicked man ! ” cried the 
skipper’s wife, as she turned on him. 
“ Kelease Mr. Drake this minute.” 

So Jorgensen, who had possessed himself 
of all the keys, did so. The first mate went 
over to the cupboard in the corner and got 
out a revolver. He made sure it was loaded 
and then pointed it at Jorgensen. “How, 
my man,” he said, handing him the hand¬ 
cuffs, “ just put these on yourself, before the 
trigger goes off and hurts you.” 

The skipper’s wife lost all patience, 
stamping her little foot on the flooi’. 

“ AVhat are you men thinking of ? ” she 
exclaimed. “ Am I captain here, or am I 
not ? Put all those horrors away and 
shake hands at once. I’ve just forgiven Mr. 
Jorgensen, and he’s promised never to do it 
again.” 

Tom Drake stood back and gasped. He 
was sinking out of his depth. He made 
an effort to get abreast of the situation, and, 
feeling that it was beyond him, surrendered 
on the spot. 

The two men shook hands as directed, 
with as much cordiality as if their hands had 
been dead fish. Tom Drake fell back again 
and waited further developments. 

“ How I am going on the bridge,” said 
the skipper’s wife, pulling the skipper’s cap 
well over her head. 

On the bridge was the third mate, Mr. 
Wilson, quite a young man with a very 
promising moustache. As soon as he saw a 
lady he raised his hat, let the wheel go hang, 
and stepped forward to help her up the 
gangway. The lady waved him indignantly 
aside and clambered up by the handrail. 

“ I’m surprised at you,” she said ; “ you’re 
as bad as the rest.” 

“ What ? ” stammered the third mate, who 


thought the remark had referred to liis 
politeness. 

“ Going and joining a mutiny ! ” went on 
the skipper’s wife. “ A. nice-looking young 
man like you, too.” 

“ I didn’t join any mutiny,” protested tlie 
third mate. 

“ Oh, indeed,” rejoined the skipper’s wife 
incredulously. “ Then why aren’t you 
downstairs in irons, like Mr. Drake ? ” 

“Well, it was like this, you see,” cried the 
third mate in liis defence. “ The second, 
Jorgensen, you know, came into my cabin 
while I was asleep and shoved a cold pistol 
under my nose. ‘ Give me best,’ he said, 
‘ or you’re a dead man.’ ‘ I’ll be ’—I mean, I 
said I certainly wouldn’t, xind I knocked 
the pistol out of his hand while I was saying 
it. I wouldn’t give any man best, till he 
had bested me. ‘ ATell,’ lie said, ‘let’s have 
a tussle for it.’ ” 

“ AVell ? ” queried the skipper’s wife, seeing 
the third mate hesitated. 

“ AYell,” explained the third mate, “well, 
he did best me. And so I caved in.” 

The first mate had taken the wheel and 
was whirling it round so violently and fre¬ 
quently that the steam quartermaster under¬ 
neath, that they had just managed to mend, 
was puffing away like an express steam-engine. 
For the first mate was in great distress of 
mind. Thirty-seven years had he sailed 
the sea, and never been on a ship like this 
before. 

“Now that I am captain,” said Mrs. 
Proctor, “what ought I to do? AAJiat 
would Mr. Proctor do in my place ? ” 

The second mate laughed, tlie first re¬ 
mained stolid, the third proceeded to 
enlighten her from the superiority of his 
recent certificate. 

“ You’d better take the sun first,” he told 
her, “ then fix our latitude and decide the 
change of course.” 

“ Certainly,” said the skipper’s wife, 
knitting her brows under the skipper’s 
clieese-cutter. 

“ Nothing of the kind,” interrupted the 
first mate. “All that’s the officers’ work, mum. 
All yoiCve got to do is to give orders, and ive 
obey them and see that the crew obey them, 
too.” 

In saying which the first mate contrived 
to kick the third several times on the painful 
part of the shin. The third at last accepted 
the hint to be silent. 

“ That sounds very nice,” mused the 
skipper’s wife, “ and much easier than the 
other, xind now that the sun’s coining out 


MRS. CAPTAIN PROCTOE. 


so beautifully, I think 1 will go and dress 
for lunch.” 

The first mate saluted ; the second stared ; 
the third took off his hat and rendered assist¬ 
ance. But, dismissing him at the foot of 
the gangway, the skipper’s wife went aft into 
her cabin ; and there she sank down on her 
knees at her husband’s side and sobbed 
silently. 

She was only eighteen, this fair, fragile 
girl; and she was only just married. And 
she had married a drunkard. Here, alone 
with him, the awful discovery cut into her 
heart like a knife. On land the captain had 
his company manners, always correct and 
manly; now she saw him lying there, a 
drunken wreck, with none of the man left in 
him. 

She did not know that since he had seen 
her and loved her he had battled strenuously 
against his vice. Long years of habit are hard 
to subdue, and tots of rum prove stern task¬ 
masters. All the honeymoon, for a month, 
he had been sober; now the relapse had 
come, all the more thorough for his long 
abstention. 

She did not know, either, how much worse 
it might have been, or she would have been 
thankful he was not delirious ; but she knew, 
as she knelt and sobbed, that her poor young 
heart was breaking. Yet she loved him, even 
more than ever, and kissed him on the lips, 
and said, “ Poor boy I poor boy ! ” 

Presently came a knock at the door—it 
was the steward. The steward hailed from 
Liverpool, where they make them little and 
they make them tough, but sometimes make 
them tender-hearted. He brought a tumbler 
of brandy hot. ‘‘ For,” he said, it’ll do you 
good, ma’am.” 

“Thank you,” she said, as she took it. 
There was a porthole open ; she threw the 
tumbler out. The steward regretted the 
brandy, but understood. 

“You look better,ma’am,” he said, resign¬ 
ing himself to the loss. 

“Much better, thank you, steward,” she 
said ; “quite well again.” And then she 
burst into tears. They were both looking 
at the body in the bunk. 

The steward was a practical man and had 
had experience in these cases. “ I’ll give 
him something to keep the fever off,” he 
said. 

“ What ? ” asked the skipper’s wife. 

“ Ammonia, if there’s any in the medicine- 
chest,” he answered ; “ if not, it’ll have to 
be salts.” 

“ I’ll go and see,” said the skipper’s wife. 


P>85 

The steward was left there reflecting ; his 
thoughts went round to the brandy hot. 

“1 expect she’s right,” he mused. “It 
seemed almost wicked to do it, but I expect 
she’s right. And, seeing as she’s ‘ old man ’ 
now. I’ll do it, too.” 

He lifted up the lid of the settee. There 
were seven bottles of rum still left un¬ 
emptied. He took them, one after the other, 
and, with seven successive sighs, heaved 
them through the porthole into the sea. 
Then he went out with a very unhappy 
countenance, found the ammonia for the 
skipper’s wife, laid the table in the saloon, 
and rang the dinner-bell. 

The skipper’s wife, as became her position 
of commander, took the head of the table. 
She had left off her oilskin overcoat and 
looked charming in a more feminine garb. 
Mr. Jorgensen, who had arrived first, told 
her so, and then Drake came in and he had 
to move a seat down. 

“ Where is Mr. Wilson ? ” asked the 
skipper’s wife. 

“ Someone has to be 'on the bridge,” 
explained Mr. Jorgensen ; “and as he’s the 
last in rank, of course it’s him.” 

“Let him be called at once,” decided the 
ski])per’s wife. 

The first mate felt he could not stand the 
strain of the conversation any longer. “I’ll 
go,” he said, rising. 

“ Certainly not, Mr. Drake,” objected the 
skipper’s wife. “What are you thinking 
of ? But perhaps,” she continued, “ Mr. 
Jorgensen wouldn’t mind telling him—and 
taking his place till after dinner ? ” 

Mr. Jorgensen evidently did mind ; but 
what else could he do but go ? “ All right,” 
he murmured, and went. And the sailors 
on that watch had a most uncomfortable 
time in consequence. 

Just then there appeared a gaunt individual 
in a new suit of serge and no collar ; he 
wore a beard and was still glistening with 
recent ablutions. He sauntered in with a 
general nod and took his place at table on 
her left. 

“ Good morning,” said the skipper’s wife, 
in greeting, “ and who are you, please ? ” 

“ I’m the chief,” was the answer. 

“ Oh, no, you’re not,” denied the skipper’s 
wife. “ I’m chief here, being commander, 
you know.” 

“ Chief engineer,” was the answer. 

“ What’s that ? ” asked the skipper’s wife. 

Even the chief engineer felt at a loss how 
to go on. 

“ Oh, of course,” cried the skipper’s wife, 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 





Kf.m'i 


“ The third mate came in and diverted tlie conversation.” 


after thinking seriously. “ The engines, 
that’s what pushes it along, isn’t it ? And 
3 "ou’re the man that sliovels in the coal, I 
suppose ? ” 

Then the third mate came in and diverted 
the conversation ; and so elated was he that 
his soup stood idle before him and grew 
cold, as he treated tlie company to a brilliant 
display of conversational fireworks. The 
steward noted it witli satisfaction and figured 
out how much saving it would mean to the 
victualling department ; and then the third 
mate, seeing the others had finislied and got 
up to go, made a spurt and upset all his 
calculations. And the steward, in high 
dudgeon, temporarily, went out with the 
rest, but the skipper’s wife sat still and 
waited. 

“ Have some more ? ” she said, when he 
had got through his courses. 

‘‘ Ho, thank you,” he answered, and 
perceived they were alone. 

He flushed and stuttered. 

“ I have something to say to you, Mrs. 
Proctor,” he managed at last to explain. 

“ To me ? ” in the inconsequential way 
dear women have. 


‘'Yes. I’m awfully fond of you. 1 knew 
we slionld be chummy from the start. And 
I want to help you.” 

The skipper’s wife held silence, this time 
really perplexed. 

“It’s a pretty rough boat, this, and that’s 
a fact. Especially for a lady—a lady all 
alone, like yon are, you know. And some¬ 
times a mail’d come in handy—in the fighting 
line, I mean. So I thought that if you ever 
found anything disagreeable, which could be 
put right by a man of that sort—if any 
punching ought to be done, you know, to 
enforce proper respect and discipline—you’ve 
only got to drop me a hint and I’ll do it. 
I’m an officer now, you know, and I’ll take 
on any man in the ship, bar none, with 
pleasure.” 

And the third mate finished his harangue 
and looked honest. 

“ You’re a dear, good fellow,” said the 
skipper’s wife, “ and it’s very kind of you 
to think of all that. Not that it Avill be 
necessary, of course. I should like to see 
anyone attempt to be rude to me. But since 
you offer your services, well, then this after¬ 
noon 3 ^ou shall show me all over the ship.” 



3IRS. CAPTAIN PROCTOR, 


337 


The third mate accepted the suggestion 
in ecstasy ; then he remembered it was his 
watch, and with lucky instinct went out to 
see Drake about it. That long-sulfei’ing 
mariner knew, of course, that Mrs. Proctor 
Avas in it ; so he took tlie watch himself and 
Avrote a letter to his AAufe for her adAuce. As 
he couldn’t possibly get an answer for a 
couple of months, it seemed that this advice 
Avould be superfluous. But it eased his mind 
in the meantime. 

Mrs. Proctor Avent to her cabin. The 
skipper AA^as still lying, one might think, 
unconscious ; but the stcAA^ard, AAdio came in 
Avith some beef tea, explained that his 
temperature Avas Avell doAvn and he aA'US getting 
on first rate. He took the tea from his Avife 
and gulped it doAvn, yet never once dared 
to meet her eyes, for he AA^as asliamed. 

And she—oli ! strange inconsistency of 
angels !—she put on a Aveak assumption of 
anger, noAV that he could see her, and Avas 
silent, and so chided him, and he took it for 
his punishment. She told him then that all 
Avas right, that he must still lie doAvn ; and 
so he shrank back in his bunk, trembling 
and prostrated. But, departing, she looked 
back through the crack of the door and 
walked aAvay forAvard Avith an eye that 
glistened. 

The third mate Avas Avaiting for her, in his 
best clothes. The second mate Avas, by 
rights, off duty, and should have been in his 
cabin ; yet he seemed alAA'ays to have some¬ 
thing to do quite close to them, and Avhen 
he could, Avithout being discovered, Avas 
staring at the skipper’s Avife AAuth eyes strangely 
bloodshot. Nobody noticed it, and the screAv 
Avent round and the vessel plunged forward. 

The next morning, after breakfast, the 
steAvard told her she AA^as AA^anted. She 
stepped on to the deck and found a depu¬ 
tation of the sailors aAvaiting her, headed by 
the man in the blue jersey, Avho Avas sup¬ 
ported on the left by the man in the red 
shirt, and pushed from the back by the pro¬ 
moted bargee. 

Somebody nudged the blue-jerseyed one 
very hard, so he spoke. 

“ My name’s GalloAvay,” he said. 

“ Yes, you Avicked man ! ” retorted the 
skipper’s Avife. “And it AA^as you avIio tried 
to do all those dreadful things yesterday.” 

“ My name’s GlalloAvay,” lie said, clinging 
to that indisputixble fact and refusing to be 
led aAvay to side issues, “ and I beg pardon.” 

“ He^ begs pardon, mum,” Avas the cor¬ 
roboration from all assembled ; “ and Ave do, 
too.” 


“ Then I’m sure I gladly grant it,” said 
the skipper’s Avife, “ and I think you very 
SAveet to come and say so.” 

“ And, seeing as hoAV things is, and you 
being in it likeAvise, mum,” said Galloway, as 
mouthpiece for all, “ Ave’ve been and SAvorn 
off.” 

“ Indeed ! ” murmured the skipper’s Avife, 
Avho had not the faintest notion Avhat he AA^as 
talking about. 

“ We have, mum. All of us. LikeAvise 
the cook. Come one, come all, that’s our 
motter; treat all alike; and Ave’re teetotallers.” 

And not one of the men looked to Avhere 
the captain Avas lying drunk, though every¬ 
one there Avas thinking of him. 

The skipper’s Avife nearly kissed the 
speaker, but she said instead— 

“ What Avould you choose as the loveliest 
treat in the Avorld ? ” 

“ Sea-pie,” the chorus rang up to the 
Avelkin. 

“ Then sea-pie you shall have for dinner 
to-day; and, another thing. I’ll make it 
myself.” 

Noav, the cook used to be an artilleryman 
before lie AA^ent to sea. No stranger had* ever 
entered his galley, and the only one AAdio had 
tried Avas still in the hospital. Judge, then, 
of his astonishment AAdien he found the 
skipper’s Avife in command of the galley, and 
he folloAving her round like a veritable galley 
slave. 

“ For,” she said, “ I’m going to make a 
sea-pie ” ; and she had put on one of his 
aprons and tucked up her sleeves before she 
remembered she didn’t knoAv Avhat a sea-pie 
Avas. 

The cook took great pride in enlightening 
her, then trotted off after her to get the in¬ 
gredients from the steAvard. The steAvard 
gave them the flour and meat and things, 
best cabin quality ; and the skipper’s AAufe 
spent the rest of the morning making sea-pie. 
Not one, but four, for the sailors and the 
firemen and the engineers and aft ; and all 
of them three-deckers. They are classic, 
those sea-pies, noAV; you can hear long 
recitatives of them in any Sailors’ Home 
Avhere the Union Jack is floating. And the 
morning Avas such an emotional one for the 
cook, that he remembered he had been human 
before he became artilleryman and cook ; 
and as soon as he reached home again he 
married and started an eating-house of his 
OAvn, and its name is the Lady Proctor, and 
it stands doAvni Wapping Avay. 

After that dinner everyone seemed to take 
a holiday. 

2 A 


838 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


The skipper was still confined to his cabin 
and appeared to be sleeping, and his wife at 
his side was lialf-dozing, too. He was much 
better, was Richard ; he would be getting up 
in a day or two ; and both of them knew, 
though neither had said so, he would never 
lie down again in a state like that. And as 
the skipper’s wife thought of this she smiled 
and nodded in her drowsiness. 

Her eyes must have been closed, for she 
did not see the door opened ; 
yet there was the second mate 
in front of her, his hand raised 
as if ill command, his eyes still 
strangely bloodshot. 

The skipper’s wife shrank in 
her seat; her breath came in 
gasps and she could not speak. 

“ Do not be afraid,” he said, 
laugliing ; “ we arc quite alone, 
at last. And now we can talk 
without fear of interruption.” 

“Don’t speak so loudly, you 
will wake him ! ” 

“ Oh, him! ” in a tone of 
ineffable contempt. “ Your Jms- 
lamR you mean ? ” 

“ Yes, my husband. AYliat 
then ? ” 

“ Nothing;. Only it is a pity. 

For otherwise I might have 
married you myself. Now—I 
can only offer you my love.” 

“ Silence, I tell you. Here, 
before him ? ” 

“ A log, my dear, nothing but 
a log we can afford to ignore.” 

“ You coward ! how dare you 
insult him ! ” 

“ If I insult him, he himself 
should resent it. Why does he 
not protect his wife also, instead 
of leaving it to me to offer—my 
protection ? ” 

Slie did not answer. Under 
the bunk was a row of drawers, 
which her skirts concealed ; she 
was opening one and feeling in it. 

“ What do you say ? You lose nothing 
by the exchange, you must—confess. hile 

poor hubby is thus, let us say, invalided, I 
will take his place. Come, kiss and be 
friends.” 

Still she said nothing ; but she had found 
it. . A tiny little silver-plated revolver, one 
of her husband’s Aveddiiig-preseuts to her—a 
very good choice and strangely appropriate 
now. 

The second mate drew a step nearer, with 


arms outstretched to embrace her ; his eye 
cauo:ht the glitter of the muzzle. He 
paused. 

“ Gro—at once—without any noise—or, ])y 
my love for him, I tire and kill you ! ” 

The second mate laughed. It was such a 
little toy. Then he looked again, and he 
did not go nearer, for the barrels were 
loaded, and even bullets so small as that 
make very ugly wounds. 


“ Are you going ? ” she whispered. 

He looked from the pistol to her. Her 
eye faced him and did not flinch. He 
blinked and looked again. It was of steel, 
that eye; there was something there he 
could not conquer. And he dared not speak 
and he dared not go nearer ; but his arms 
fell to his side and his hands hung listless, 
and, without knowing it, he found himself 
retreating and had passed through the door 
outside. 







MRS. CAPTATN PROCTOR. 


889 


The steward had finished a plug with the 
cook and was coming aft again. As he came 
ill the saloon alley-way he thought he heard 
something fall. The skipper’s wife liad 
fainted to the ground. So the steward, 
whose medical attainments were entirely 
practical, made up his mind she wanted air. 
Lifting her gently, he carried her to the top 
bridge, where the third mate made her 
comfortable under the storm canvas and 
brought up a chart of the Great Australian 
Bight to fan her with. And then the 
steward remembered he had got some 
smuggled Florida-water aboard and he went 
back to fetch it. 

He found a gaunt, pale figure in the saloon, 
trying to open the spirit-locker ; the steward 
had emptied that when he sacrificed the 
rum. 

“Steward,” begged the captain feebly, “ I 
want a pick-me-up.” And if he had not 
held on to the railing he would have fallen 
to the deck. 

The steward remembered the captain’s 
wife. “ Can’t do it, sir,” he said. 

“Give me something to set me up for five 
minutes,” ordered the captain. “ Do you 
hear ? ” 

The steward heard, and there was some¬ 
thing in the other’s voice that compidled 
obedience. 

He went to the medicine-chest. There 
was a bottle of brandy there, for emergencies. 
He gave it to the captain. With a tap on 
the bulk-head the captain had broken off 
the neck, then raised it to his lips and 
drained it dry. 

“ Throw the bottle overboard,” he cried ; 
“it is the last I ever touch. And now,” 
he said, bracing himself up, “ I want you to 
get Mr. Jorgensen down the lazarctte. T 
shall be there, waiting for him. Savez ? ” 


“The steward did, and approved, and went 
forward to fetch the second mate. 

The lazarctte is a little hold in the stern, 
where the steward keeps his stores. “ And,” 
said the steward, “ there’s a rat down there ; 
I want you to catch him.” 

“ I’ll go,” said the second mate, “ for I 
badly want to murder something.” 

And he went down with a lantern, and the 
steward let fall the hatch after him, and 
locked it and sat on it, and then listened to 
the noise beneath. 

At last there were three knocks on the 
other side of the hatch. The steward got up 
and opened. 

The skipper emerged. “ You had better 
see what you can do for him,” he said, and he 
walked away, firm and upright and relentless. 

And the propeller slowed down and tlie 
vessel anchored, and they were outside Las 
Palmas. And the skipper put on liis cap 
and took command. 

“ Anyone ill ? ” said the medical officer 
wlio had come off from the sliore, as tlic 
ci’ew ranged alongside the bulwarks. 

“ Only the second mate,” sang out the 
steward. 

“ What’s he suffering from ? ” asked the 
doctor. 

“ Partial break-up,” said the steward. 

“ I will see him,” said the doctor, an 1 
at the second mate’s own request took him 
ashore to the hospital. 

Then they coaled and at dusk weighed 
anchor. And the moon came out and peeped 
through the skipper’s porthole ; and in the 
cabin the skipper was on his knees, and the 
skipper’s wife held his head to her breast, and 
liis arms were clinging round her. 

And the screw went round and the sliip 
went onward, onward to the Cape of Good 
Hope. 











THE PRESENT POPULARITY OF POLO. 


By Basil Tozer. 


“^M^ONARCHS have succeeded mon- 
I yl archs,” writes Mr. Deldavi, the 
^ well-lviiowu authority upon the 
antiquity of the game of polo, “ nations 
have conquered nations, the world has seen 
iunumerable changes, but the evergreen 
game of polo still survives the destructive 
forces of Time ! It thrives and promises to 
be co-extensive in existence with the love 
of sport among men. It claims superiority 
over other games inasmuch as it inculcates 
‘ good temper, presence of mind, perfect 
horsemanship, coolness of judgment, supple¬ 
ness of muscle, and unflinching nerve.’ It 


pastime had its origin either among the 
people of Persia, or among the inhabihiuts 
of Chinese Tartary, so long ago as the fiftli 
century n.c. Then, no less an authority 
than Sir William Ouseley remarks, in his 
“ Travels in the East ”—a volume published 
in 1819—that polo was played in almost 
every reign of the Sassanian kings of Persia, 
and that it was taken up enthusiastically by 
the Mohammedan rulers of Persia, as it Avas 
played by their fire-worshipping predecessors. 
The Mohammedans, it may be remembered, 
conquered Persia about the year (582 A.n., 
and soon afterwards settled there as its 



THE INTER-REGIMENTAL TOURNAMENT IN INDIA : IItH HUSSARS V. 5tiI LANCERS. 


claims superiority,” lie repeats, “ for it has 
always been played by the proud hands of 
martial races, and, let us hope, it Avill ever 
continue so to be.” That such actually is 
the case any person can ascertain who is 
sufficiently energetic and possesses patience 
enough to dive deeply into the mass of 
ancient manuscripts which contain references 
to the early game of polo and are at present 
securely stored among the archives of the 
British Museum. Indeed, the antiquity of 
polo is so very great that no one has as yet 
been able to discover by whom the game 
was invented, though many have attempted 
to do so. Certain it is, however, that the 


rulers. Gradually the game came to be 
played in Greece, in Egypt, in Arabia, in 
India, in Afghanistan, and in Japan ; yet, 
though it can hardly be doubted that polo 
was introduced into India early in the tenth 
century, and introduced then presumably by 
the Mohammedans, it is a remarkable fact 
that the first bond fide polo match played in 
England took place less than thirty years 
ago. 

Ever since that time, hoAvever, polo has 
been slowly acquiring popularity. Army 
men, of course, were the first to indulge in 
it and to help to foster our countrymen’s 
growing fondness for the game; and no 






THE PRESENT POPULARITY OF POLO. 


841 



TIIK INTEll-KEGIMKNTAL TOURNAMENT IN INDIA: QUEEN’s RAYS V. 18tH HUSSARS. 


doubt many more Englislimen would have 
become keen about polo fifteen or tAventy 
years ago but for the fact that, in tliose days, 
the average British soldier was a much, less 
finislied horseman than is the average British 
soldier of to-day. Indeed, anyl)ody avIio 
will take the trouble to compare tlie actual 
horsemanship of the majority of the men 
who rode in the military steeplecliases of 
about that period with the horsemanship of 
the majority of soldiers wlio ride now, can 
easily see for liimself tliat Avliat I say is ])nt 


tlie truth. Hence it is tliat polo has been 
coming to the front as one of our national 
games only during the last four or five 
years. Eli is year in particular it seems to 
be “ booming.” The ‘‘ boom ” is, of course, 
to some extent due to the fact that no less 
than six new polo clubs have been organised 
in England within the last eighteen 
months, of which the most important are 
the London Polo Club at tlie Crystal Palace, 
under the management of Major E. Herbert 
—who some years ago was considered one of 



THE INTER-REGIMENTAE TOURNAMENT IN INDIA : QUEEN’s RAYS V. 18tH HUSSARS. 



842 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



the best polo players in Great Britain—and 
the AYiinbledon Polo Clnb. Hnrlingliam 
and Panelagb naturally hold their own at 
the top of the list of clubs where polo is 
played, and, for reasons sufficiently ob\dons, 
are likely to continue to do so for many 
years to come. 

Yet, tliongh Englisliinen are only now 
l)ecoLning thoronghly alive to the fascinations 
of what has rightly been described as the 


Raj Bijey Singh. 


Avhicli comparatively few men take part, it is 
the lesser section of the general public that 
is genuinely interested in it or in seeing it 
played. Naturally, all Englishmen love to 
witness for once, at any rate, a game being 
played Avhich they have not seen played 
before, especially if it be a game which 
needs skill and courage, endurance and 
determination on the part of the players, as 
is the case with polo ; but this spasmodic 
inquisitiveness is. 


Risaldar ]>hui- Singh. 


Cant. A. B. Mayiie. H.II. Maharao Umaid Singh Bahadur Mahai'ajali .lai Singh. 
(finiuder of the Club). 

THE KOTAII J'OLO TEAM. 
rhuto by Herzog J/iggius, Mhow, India. 

“ King of Games,” the popularity of polo 
will never be, cannot ever be, so universal 
in these Islands as, let us say, the popularity 
of cricket or of football, for the simple reason 
that the majority of mankind take greater 
interest in, and consequently prefer to watch, 
games being ])layed in which they themselves 
might be taking part. Sucli forms of 
pastime seem to appeal more directly to 
their sympathies, and as polo is a game in 


as a rule, soon 
satisfied. 

It is by no 
means unnsnal to 
hear ])olo described 
as “ a very cruel 
game” by persons 
who liave never 
played it and who 
know nothing about 
it. The late Mr. 
Moray Brown, Avho 
was an excellent 
judge of polo as 
well as of polo- 
ponies, and an 
extremely accom¬ 
plished writer upon 
the subject of polo 
and all apper¬ 
taining thereto, 
used often to lash 
liimself into a 
fury upon reading 
the ridiculous 
articles denouncing 
the game, articles 
which appeared in 
several somewhat 
infinential news¬ 
papers a few years 
ago. One writer in 
particular, I well 
remember, wliile 
attempting to draw 
a vivid contrast 
lia. between polo and 

the primitive game 
called hockey, remarked that now, “ instead 
of running on foot after the ball, the players 
are mounted, and it is the ‘ponies' shins that 
come in for liard knocks, not tlieir own,” 
and so on. Another writei* of the same 
stamp declared soon afterwards that polo was 
“ almost as cruel a sport as steeplecliasing 
and about iqjon a par in this respect with 
fox-linnting,” and that “ no man with a 
vestige of manhood left in him would wish 


I 






MID-FIKLI) PLAY AT WIMBLEDON PARK. 



'I'lIE ROYAL ARTILLERY TEA^M AT WI.MBLEDON PARK. 



THE WIMBLEDON PARK TEA^NL 





34t 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



A YOUTHFUL AMKKICAN POLO PI>AYEP.. 


to see polo establislied in England as a 
national sport or anything in any way 
approaching to it.” I need not trouble to 
point ont the absurdity of snch ram]ding 
statements. Polo, indeed, far from being a 
cruel form of amusement, is enjoyed by tlic 
ponies almost as thoroughly as most horses 
that have once been limited ever afterwards 
delight in the sound of the horn and the 
sight of hounds. Tliat it promises to become 
one of the most popular, if not actually the 
most popular, of our up-to-date out-of-door 
sports, I have already pointed out, so that, 
according to the writer whose words I liave 
quoted, it would seem as if very few 
Englishmen could boast of still possessing 
“ a vestige of manhood.” 

Unfortunately, the present popularity of 
polo has caused the prices of well-bred, fast, 
and thoroughly broken or trained polo- 
ponies to increase enormously, so that lirst- 
class polo seems likely soon to become a 
game in which only millionaires will be able 
to indulge. Who, ten years ago, would have 
thouglit of paying £500 or £600 for a 
single pony ? Yet now we frequently hear 
of polo-ponies being sold for 500 guineas, 
600 guineas, and 700 guineas apiece, and 
only recently two polo-ponies fetched respec¬ 
tively 850 guineas and 900 guineas. Of 


course, it would be absurd 
to suppose that the cleverest 
polo-pony ever foaled could 
be wortli that amount of 
money, and polo-players have 
in a measure themselves to 
blame for raising the market 
price of ponies to the high 
level that it has now 
reached. Even in parts of 
India the pony market is 
nndergoing a similar trans¬ 
fer] nation. A few years ago 
a clever polo-pony would 
fetch in the open market 
between 160 rupees and 200 
rupees ; but now, owing to 
the willingness—nay, tlie 
anxiety—of certain English¬ 
men to pay higher figures, 
tlie average price of a tip¬ 
top pony in such places as 
Jlombay, Calcutta, and 
Madras varies between 800 
and 600 rupees, and the 
prices seem likely to creep 
still higher. In the provinces 
in England certain up- 
to-date farmers are en¬ 
deavouring to neutralise entirely the de¬ 

plorable effects of the agricultural depression 
by breeding polo-ponies, and the attempts 
of some of them have so far proved fairly 
successful. It is very doubtful, however, 

whether in the long rnn the breeding of 
])olo-ponies will be found to be a remunera¬ 
tive form of “farming,” except by the men 
who have, so to speak, a large clientele of 
polo-players, and not ])layers merely, but 
players avIio frequently buy fresh ponies, a 
thing that some of our provincial polo- 
players do but rarely. And even then the 
farmer cannot, or at any rate he should not, 
expect to command prices in any way 
approaching the figures given above ; for, 
after all, how many farmers are there who 
are able to train a pony as he needs to be 
ti’ained for polo ? How many farmers, I 
ask you, have ever seen polo properly played ? 
How many have seen it played at air? I 
well remember a year or two ago asking a 
middle-aged husbandman what he really 
thought the game of polo was like, for at 
that time he was seriously considering 
whether it might not be worth his while to 
breed a few ponies for what he termed “ the 
polo market.” After pondering for several 
minutes and awkwardly scratching his head, 
he replied that he “ couldn’t say, not for 






THE PRESENT POPULARITY OF POLO. 


845 


certain, what polo was like,” but that some 
of bis friends had told him that it bore a 
striking resemblance to ‘‘this ’ere game of 
croak-it (croquet), only played a-horseback.” 

Is it likely that women will ever take to 
polo ? The question is asked as regularly as 
the polo season comes round, but as yet 
nobody appears to have answered it satis¬ 
factorily. As a fact, women have “ taken to 
polo ” ; they have taken to it more than 
once, but unfortunately, or perhaps fortu¬ 
nately, polo has not taken to them. So long 
ago as the eleventh century, according to an 
ancient manuscript to be seen in the British 
Museum, “ ladies of high birth and distinc¬ 
tion played polo,” and in the year 1887 some 
sporting girls in Ireland attempted to revive 
the custom, but failed lamentably. Captain 
Younghusband, in his capital book, entitled, 
“ Polo in India,” gives us rather an amusing 
description of a game of polo played in India 
by some Englishwomen. He tells us, with 
somewhat grim humour, that the two men, 
one on each side, who were appointed to 
guard the interests and look after the safety 
of the women, had rather a hard time of it. 
The sides were “ Married AVomen versus 
Unmarried.” After two or three minutes’ 
play one of the fair players cried out that 


she could not see the ball with her veil on. 
Instantly there was a halt, the veil was 
removed, and play went on. A few minutes 
later another damsel shouted out she could 
not play with her gloves on. Again the 
game was stopped, and the gloves were 
removed. A third one entrusted her hand¬ 
kerchief to her male partner, who, poor 
obedient thing, having no pockets in his 
tight breeches, found it difficult to take 
charge of. In the first attempt, therefore, 
the game did not go off well; l3ut after a 
short interval for tea, which brightened up 
the players, the second turn proved a success, 
for which tlie captain complimented his fair 
friends profusely. This season a club, to be 
known as “ The York and Cumberland 
Ladies’ Polo Association,” is being organised 
in the north of England. AVhether it will 
prove a success remains to be seen. Person¬ 
ally, I “ hae me doots,” for I do not see hoAV 
polo can ever be played properly either by 
men or by women riding in side-saddles. 
The promoters of the new organisation are 
sanguine of success, however, and we all 
know that when an Englishwoman makes up 
her mind to do a thing, she is, in the 
vernacular of the prize-ring, “very bad to 
beat.” 



Photo %] 


IF. P. l/Arcy, Dublin. 


THE INNISKILLlNii DRAGOONS ROLO TEAM IN THCENIX RAUK, DUHLIN. 






Mbo goes there?” 

Bv A. J. -Wali,. 










By ORME AGNUS.' 


Illustrated hij Gunning King. 


Daniel Bellocs came home on 
VV fniiono:h, after two years’ service 
^ ^ in the^Arniy, 1 did not know him. 

It was really amazing to look on the new 
Daniel and recall the old. 1 reinemhered him 
as a yontli in whom no one, save perhaps his 
mother, saw any personal attractions. He 
was tall and strongly built, bnt he was 
almost as slow as oiir decrepit greybeards, 
and walked with a limping gait, due to no 
positive defect, bnt because he had got into 
the habit of carrying his right foot forward 
at rii»:hb angles to his line ol progression, 
with/ the knee bent. Intensifying every 
defect, he had the vacuous expression of the 
yokel at his Avorst. AYhen it is added that 
he Avore a smock, and generally Avalked beside 
his team chewing his whip, it is unnecessary 
to say that I liaA^c not seen a correcter 
specimen of Hodge as the toAvn artist loA es 
to draAV him. 

Farmer Goodyer, his employer, who Avas 
often irritated at Daniel’s leisurely progress 
throm^h life, used to say that he paid the 
youth seven shillings a Aveek for lounging to 
and from his Avork, and nicknamed him 
“ Dan Slow.” . 

One memorable Saturday evening Daniel 
went into Suckton to see the sigdits, and 
among other things beheld a soldier home 
on furlough. He was walking the main 
street in arrogant scarlet pride, attended 

* Copyri.i^ht, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 


by a small retinue of his acquaintances. 
Daniel stood gazing at the great man in 
envy, and Avhen he stopped he sidled near 
the group and listened. He noted that the 
plain-coated friends listened deferentially to 
him, and Avhen he saluted passing girls 
Avith terms of affection the latter did not 
resent his attentions. Daniel sighed again 
and again, and then the thought passed 
through liis mind that such an eminent 
position Avas not beyond him, that he had 
only to seek out Sergeant Trelfall, in Kiver 
Street, and he, Daniel Belloes, would be as 
the great man before him, clothed with the 
majesty of scarlet and adored by the maids. 
The very thought induced in him^ the 
semblance of a military carriage ; he stiffened 
his back and SAVung his arms in military 
fashion, reflecting proudly that he Avas at 
least an inch taller than the soldier. Daniel 
did not AA'ait for his enthusiasm to cool, 
but Avhen the lordly Avarrior condescended 
to accept the invitation of his court, and 
turned into the River Inn, he AA^ent straight 
to Sergeant Trelfall, and before twenty-foui* 
hours had passed he Avas no longer a common 
civilian to be chivied by Farmer Goodyer. 

I remember tliere Avas some laughter in 
the village Avhen it Avas spread abroad that 
Daniel had joined the British Army. If 
they had taken Daniel they Avould take 
anybody, aaris the prevalent opinion, and 
Farmer Goodyer declared that he Avould send 
his pump-handle to be made into a soldier. 
“It have zo much zense as Dan,” said he, 
:-347 














81:8 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



“ lie sidled near the group and listened.” 


‘‘and it do move just about zo quick. Tlie 
virst tiling; they’ll liave to do iv they keeps 
en—which I do doubt—will be to put eu 
through a mangle and straighten en out, vor 
he alius walks as iv tlie strings ov his joints 
be gwone. An insult to Her Most (li'acioiis 
Majesty to charge she vor a red jacket 
vor he.” 

We soon forgot all about Dan; but now he 


liad come home, "'and it was impossible to 
lielieve that tliere was any connection 
between Slow Dan and the figure that 
swaggered down the village street in sj^otless 
uniform, with head thrown back, cane 
twirling, and a gait that Avas exaggeratedly 
military. As lie smiled condescendingly 
upon us it seemed that he could not be Dan 
Belloes, but some impossibly magnificent 















THE COMING OF A SOLDIER. 


349 


incarnation of the youth we knew. Tlie 
thought crossed my mind that here alone 
the Britisli Army was justified. 

His condescension was extreme. lie 
saluted us and asked graciously after our 
welfare ; he asked Widow Malpas if she still 
had Old Joe, the decrepit old pony, and he 
told Wilson he had been admiring his turnips 
as he passed along. As the great lord moves 
among his tenantry and inquires after their 
welfare, so did Daniel Belloes, private, con¬ 
descend to take interest in our petty lives. 
But I know when he reached home and saw 
his mother he relapsed into his childhood’s 
tongue. “ I be glad to zee ’ee, just about,” 
he said, and kissed her. 

In the evening he showed himself to our 
youth. “ Bert, me lad,” he said to x\lbert 
Sowle, ‘‘ still kicken in this one-horse 
show ? Can’t make out you fellers never 
seeing any life.” In a few minutes he had 
gathered his little court and was most 
aftable to all of them, though he declared 
every few minutes that he could uot uuder- 
stand their want of lust for life. ‘‘ ‘ ’Pon my 
soul,’ I says to meself as I come along to-day, 

‘ fancy me been buried alive here now.’ ” 

They were shy in his presence, and the 
conversation for some time was a monologue. 
By degrees they managed to ask a few ques¬ 
tions, and Dick Challey was so maladroit as 
to ask him if he really liked “ sojering.” 
Daniel laughed iu supreine contempt. “ Just 
look at him ! ” he said, pointing to the 
unliappy Challey. “ He asks I if I like 
sojering ! ” and he drew himself up, and 
the rest of our youth, looking from one to 
the other, had their answer. 

“ I say, lads,” he said at last, “ I’ve 
talked my throat dry ; let’s move to the 
canteen for a wet. Come along, all of you ; 
this is my shell-out.” 

He held his glass of beer up to the light 
with a look ou his face which implied that 
he feared the worst. He sipped and all his 
fears were confirmed. “ You pore beggars ! ” 
he said in a low voice, and he sipped again. 
“ I apologise, lads ; but if any of you should 
ever call and see me at our barracks you shall 
have a drop of real genuine stuff. Never 
mind, though, if you’re used to it, drink it.” 

Many stories did Daniel pour forth that 
night, some of which seemed improbable, but 
no one questioned them. Daniel’s battalion 
was stationed at Belfast, and Ireland to many 
of us is still a wild land where rebels are as 
common as tramps with us, and wlierc it is 
wise for the soldier to sleep with his rifle by 
his side, and to most of his listeners Daniel 


was as one who had returned from foreign 
lands. On the whole it seemed a glorious 
life, and there were some who resolved that 
niglit tliat, “ before long,” they would also 
become men of war. 

So far his visit had seemed harndess 
enough, but the next day Daniel unwittingly 
began to make history in our village. 

That afternoon I met Dan with Maggie 
Debbs, who is “ walked out ” by Tom 
Thatcher, and it was evident Maggie felt 
highly honoured. In the ordinary course 
Tom at that hour would have been at work 
in Jesty’s smithy, but, as luck would have it, 
the smith had sent him to do a small job at 
the inn. He looked a little hurt as he came 
upon them and saw how pleased his Maggie 
looked, but he was more pained when the 
soldier, displaying to the full his air of con¬ 
descension, saluted him with ‘‘ Hello, Tom !” 
and Maggie merely nodded and turned away 
her head to make some laughing reply to her 
consort. Tom had stopped, intending to 
show Daniel his relations with the girl, and 
he felt like a fool as they passed on and left 
liiin standing there. 

The Bellocses’ cottage is in the lane that 
skirts the churchyard, and that evening, 
having occasion to pass, I found Daniel sitting 
on the garden wall, smoking his pipe, with 
no less than five girls round him whom he 
was amusing vastly, to judge from their 
merriment. I foresaw tragical times in store, 
for among the maidens I not only saw 
Maggie, but Sally I^aney and Polly Beddout, 
who, in accordance with nightly custom, 
ought at that hour to have been walking out 
witli. their adoring swains. 

Vulgar curiosity made me turn round, and 
I sauntered back towards the cross-roads 
and there I found what I expected. Dick 
Challey, Tom Thatcher, and Jim Hoiley were 
propped against the wall, looking very dis¬ 
consolate. They were waiting for the fickle 
maids who had been fascinated by an arrogant 
carriage and a red jacket. Miss Laney and 
Miss Beddout did, I was informed, over an 
hour after the usual time, come down the 
street and were joined by Dick and Jim, but 
Love that evening had an irritable, sneering 
temper, and there Avas no SAveetness in the 
communion of souls. 

Next day the infection had spread still 
further. BetAveen two and three that after¬ 
noon I saAA' Jinny Peters in her best hat and 
Sunday jacket saunter past the church. Noav, 
Jinny is a hard-Avorking girl, and I never 
remembered to have seen her before at that 
hour indulging in frivolous walks, and my 


350 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


suspicions were aroused when presently she 
slowly returned and again went back. 
Presently Private Belloes came out and 
accidentally, as he doubtless surmised, met 
Jinny. 

“ How do, miss?” said Dan, with a miliUiry 
salute. “ Nice day, ain’t it ? ” 

“ It be beautiful, reely,” said Jinny 

“ Where’re you off, my dear, at this time 
o’ day ? ” 

“ Oh, nowhere in particler,” said Jinny. 
“ I thought I’d take a walk up along, as it 
be zo nice, and I med zee Polly Reddout or— 
or zomebody.” 

At that moment there was a diversion, for 
Kate Lucy Tickerton came up. Kate Lucy, 
to my mind, is one of the prettiest girls in 
our village. It is not the general opinion, 
however, for she happens to have a glorious 
head of hair of a pronounced auburn tint, 
and there is a prejudice against hair of that 
colour, and there are some who pity Kate 
Imcy for the defect. It was perhaps in 
consequence that she was keeping company 
with Albert Sowle. There are young men I 
like better than iVlbert. 

Kate Lucy and Jinny are not intimate 
friends, but Kate went up to Miss Peters 
with the greatest cordiality. “ Whatever be 
you doen out at this time. Jinny ? ” she 
asked. “ Bain’t it a vine day ? ” 

Very,” said Jinny, not altogether pleased 
at Kate Lucy’s advent. 

Grand day, I calls it,” remarked Daniel. 

“ Zo grand as grand,” replied Kate Lucy. 
“ Be you comen up along, Jinny ? ” 

“Yes, we be comen, ain’t us ? ” said Dan 
waggishly. 

“ Who zaid you may ? ” asked Jiuny, 
and both girls laughed as Dan pulled a wry 
face and tried to look woebegone. 

“ Can’t I come, too, my dears ? ” he in¬ 
quired. “ I can talk ’bout hats and dresses : 
I knows all the fashions. Now, come along ! 
I walks in the middle, and if you feels 
frightened or lonely I’ll put my arms round 
you both ! ” 

They were aghast at his impudence, and 
laughed to exhaustion. “ Yon hadn’ better 
come near we, Master Imperence ! ” cried 
Jinny ; and Dan, accepting the invitation, 
joined them and made them for an hour 
the proudest and happiest maids in the 
village. He entertained them with pictures 
of military life more highly coloured than 
those he had related in the taproom, and 
boasted of the prowess of his regiment among 
the good-looking girls of Ireland. 

“ However these fellers about here can 


live as they do, when there’s the Army, I 
can’t understand. Pore dears, they’ve never 
seen any life ! If I had me choice of leaven 
the Army or been sliced into little bits, what 
should I say ? I should say, ‘ G-et the knives 
ready and begin slicen.’ ” 

“ Iv I was a man I should love to be a 
sojer,” said Kate Lucy. 

“So should I, I declare,” said Jinny. 

“ That’s the proper spirit, my dears. 
I pities the pore beggars what haven’t the 
spirit to join. They don’t know what 
life is.” ' 

They left him, delighted at the honour 
conferred upon them, but at the same time 
depressed. The corn merchant’s handy man 
from Suckton, of whom Jinny had hopes, 
was now a disappointing creature, and Kate 
Lucy, as she formed a mental picture of 
Albert Sowle, said with a sigh, “ I do zo 
like sojers. They be such jolly vellers.” 

And still the worship of Mr. Atkins 
increased, and our young men were furious. 
They sneered at Daniel, they recalled him 
as he was in the days before he had become 
a Queen’s man, and laughed mirthlessly at 
his present appearance. “ Iv there be 
anythen,” said Jim Hoiley to Polly Reddout, 
“ that do make I veel like laughen meself 
zilly, it be the sight ov thik Dan in his 
sojer’s clothes. Yancy ’em putten a red 
jacket on to he ; and he do zAvagger about 
like a turkey-cock.” 

Polly retorted hotly, “ He be the zmartest 
Atelier I’ve zeen ’bout here vor a long time, 
I can tell ’ee. I do zo like to zee a man look 
zmart.” 

Jim did not reply on the instant, but he 
AA’as not meditating a soft ansAver. “ Yon 
maids be all alike,” he said ; “ but I did 
think you had more zense, Polly. All 
becos he have a red jacket' and do strut 
about, you be mad about en. He do zAvagger 
as if tliease place all belonged to en ; and 
Avhat be he ? IlisA^ather be only a shepherd, 
and he be ZIoav Dan Belloes. A sojer ! 
r Avonldn’ giA^e tAVo brass vardens vor all the 
sojers in Darset. Catch I been a sojer,” 
and Jim laughed derisiA'ely. His pride Avas 
AAmunded and he meant to sting. 

Polly AA^as not sIoav to folloAV. In fact, as 
she looked at her lover, and mentally com¬ 
pared him Avith Private Belloes, she AA-as near 
despising him. “ I knoAV one thing,” she 
said, AAuth great distinctness, “ that you’d 
have to zmarten up pretty considerable avoio 
they’d take ’ee in the Army.” 

Jim AA^as not (juick at repartee, and the} 
AvMkcd some distance Avhile he AA'as preparing 


THE COMING OF A SOLDIER. 


o5i 



“lie felt like a fool as they passed on and left him standing there.” 


his retort. “ I z’pose,” he said at last, with 
an irritating langli, “ that when the vair 
comes agen, we shall have to look sharp 
avter ’ee, or you’ll be runnen away with the 
clown all becos he be dressed np. Iv they 
pnt a monkey in a sojer’s jacket I z pose 
you’d be a’most ready-” 

“ Everybody have told I what I shonld 
vind yon to be,” interrupted Polly, speaking 
mendaciously, and she hung herself round 
and left him. 

“ You gwo to thik monkey in red,” said 
Jim, white with anger. 

“ I’ll gwo to a man,” Polly shouted back. 


It was the hrst quarrel that had interrupted 
the delightful current of their courtship, and 
Avhen Polly had gone Jim hung himself 
down on the grass in wrath and misery. 
“ The zilly ways o’ women ! ” he muttered. 

She can gwo after thik zilly monkey ” ; 
but a minute later he added, “ Next time 
I zee en I’ll wring his neck vor en.” 

He got np at last. “Very well,” he said, 
speaking to a calf that was looking at him 
over a gate, “it be viiiished ; iv she comes 
to I on her bended knees I shall tell she to 
gwo and talk to Dan Belloes. I did think 
she’d better zense.” 



















852 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Jim made a circuit through the fields to 
liis home, but at tlie cross-roads tliere was 
standing a disconsolate group, including 
Albert Sowle, Tim Beiins, Tom Tliatcher, 
and Sammy Pablington. Jim felt inclined 
to sneak home, but they had seen him and 
he went up to them. ^To hide his wound 
Jim affected light raillery. “Hello, yon 
vellers,” he said, “whatever be yon doen 
here, looken zo glum ? Thee looks, Bert, as 
if thee’d lost a ha’penny.” 

An inarticulate growl answered liim. 

“ Why bisn’t walken the missis round 
thease evenen, Bert ? ” he went on. 

“ Why bain’t tliee ? ” asked Sowle, with a 
sneer. 

“ Oh, she Ije ter’ble busy thease evenen, 
do ’ee zee,” replied Jim. 

“ Ees, slie be,” retorted Sowle. “ She 
passed we goen up along, and she be talken 
to Dan Belloes at tliease very identical minit. 
A\niy don’t ’ee ’list, Jim ? ” 

Jim’s pleasantry laid recoiled on himself, 
and lie said something profane as they 
laughed loudly. 

“ And why don’t all ov ’ee ? ” he cried 
savagely. “ Zims to I your maids don’t 
think much ov ’ee nowadays, now Captain 
Dan Belloes be to liwome.” 

“No,” said Tim Benns; “did anybody 
ever zee such vooils as the maids be ? ” 

Their jeers ceased at Benn’s question, 
which was received with muttered approval; 
each wounded heart was craving for the 
sympathy of others likewise suffering. 

“ Iv there Avas any then in tlie veller 
better’ll ord’nary,” said Pablington, “ one 
med understand tlie maids behaven in sich a 
way.” 

“ But there bain’t,” put in Albert, “ there 
bain’t. Iv you put a turnip on a vork and a 
bit ov red vlannel round, it’d be quite zo 
taken as thik wooden lump.” 

“ Maids,” said Tim Benns, with the melan¬ 
choly of the experienced philosopher, “ maids 
alius be vond ov vine clothes. It be Avoman- 
natur, and I don’t think they can help it 
altogeder, though I did think Hester bain’t 
like the rest.” 

^ “ You didn’ think it any niAvore than I 
did ’bout Polly,” said Jim Hoiley, Avith a 
sigh. “ I thought she the zensiblest maid 
that ever I zee. ‘ Looks bain’t anythen,’ I 
says to meself, ‘ it be zense I Avant.’ Though 
she have got her looks, too.” 

“ And didn’ I think zo ’bout Kate Lucy ? ” 
asked Albert SoAvle indignantly. “ ‘ You’ve 
got carroty hair,’ thinks I, ‘ but you bain’t 
a vooil.’ ” 


They remained moodily discussing the 
Eternal Feminine until nearly nine o’clock, 
Avhich is a very late hour in our village, Avhere 
many of us rise at four and five o’clock. 
They separated, hoping, as Jim Hoiley said, 
that the “ maids ’ould come to their zenses 
avore they were many days Avolder.” 

But the morrow brought no comfort. A 
mother here and there asked her daughter 
the meaning of such folly, but it AA^as Avithout 
effect; on the contrary, there Avere three 
more who joined in tlie pursuit of Private 
Belloes, and some of the maidens AA-ere very 
candid Avith each other. “ I never did zee 
the like,” said Maud CombarroAV to Jinny 
Peters and Harriet Kells ; “ there be I don’t 
knoAV how many ov ’ee runnen avter pore 
Dan. It do make I A-eel ashamed ov my 
OAvn sect to zee it.” 

The tAvo girls bluslied guiltily, but Harriet 
replied spiritedly. “ And Iioav about your¬ 
self ?” she inquired slirilly; ^^you bain’t runnen 
avter en, I z’pose ? Oh, no ! Why, you Avas 
in Mrs. Belloes’s avore ten thease marnen. 
You’ve no need to deny it, vor I zeen ’ee. 
You’ve been in and out a score ov times 
since Dan come liAA^ome.” 

It was Miss CombarroAv’s turn to blush, 
but she answered nevertheless with dignity, 
“ I AA^ent in thease marnen to ask Mrs. 
Belloes iv slie could lend mother her vlat 
irons vor-” 

“ AVhat did she AA^ant irons vor to-day ? ” 
interrupted Jinny Peters. “ It bain’t your 
ironen day. You alius iron Thursdays.” 

“And you didn’ bring ’em out, Amr I 
zeen ’ee come back,” added Harriet Kells 
triumphantly. 

Maud blushed still more, but her reply Avas 
still dignified. “ Mother—mother Avanted 
they irons, but Mrs. Belloes Avanted to use 
’em. And I should like ’ee to knoAV that it 
be a different thing vor I, zeen as Ave be 
relations. Mother and Abram Belloes be 
second cousins, and, besides, me and Dan AA^as 
alius very vriendly. I heard Mrs. Pollens 
zayen thease A^ery marnen that it be a dis¬ 
grace to the 23arish to zee the AA^ay zome ov 
the maids be behaven becos there be a sojer 
about. ‘A nice tale lie’ll carry back ’bout 
AA^e,’ she zaid.” 

^ “ You can’t say anythen,” said Harriet 
Kells. “ You med be tAventy-virst cousins 
or zomethen ov the zort, but I knoAv your 
mother alius looked doAvn on they Belloeses. 
You’d like to zAvagger about Avith Dan all to 
yourself, but he bain’t such a gurt stupe. 
Come on. Jinny,” and Miss Combarrow was 
left to fume alone. 



THE COMING OF A SOLDIER. 


8.58 


Nevertheless, she had given an idea to one 
of them, and an hour or so later Miss Peters 
walked into r)elloes' cottage. Her mother 
wondered if Mrs. Helloes had a bit of 
pennyroyal she conld let liei* have, as she 
thought a sip or two of ])eniiyroyal tea might 
do her good. Mrs. I^elloes thought she had, 
and Dan invited elinny to go with him n}) 
the garden to look, and her strategy was 
rewarded with half an hour’s tete-a-tetp. 
Neither she nor Miss Com barrow could 
patent the idea, however, and in the next 
few days Mrs. Helloes had other callers. 
“ 1 z’pose,” she remarked to her neighbours, 
“ that it be ’cos Dan be to hwome that the 
maids have taken to conien here : I’ve had 
dree ov ein thease avternoon. They do 
think my Dan be a zmart bwoy, I ’low.” 
Mrs. Helloes had always been proud of her 
boy, but now she declared the village had 
never had his equal. 

The Hrotherhood of the Disconsolate had 
recruits at the cross-roads that evening, and 
nine young fellows stood, hands in pockets, 


in gloomy dejection. AVhat pen conld do 
justice to the tragic business ? The descrip¬ 
tion of how a third juiity comes between two 
loving hearts, and the woe that ensues, is 
siifhcient theme for a long novel or five-act 
drama, but here were all the swains of a 
village suffering the teiTible torture of those 
who, having tasted the wine of Love, have 
the cup dashed from their lips. Some wlio 
passed the cross-roads and knew the secret 
jeered, Imt the sympathetic reader who has 
loved will drop a tear. 

If any of them had hopes that the madness 
of the maidens had passed, they were dis¬ 
pelled by George Peters, the last arrival. 
“Thikgurt vooil,” he said, “be down near 
the Post-office, grinnen like a ape, and there 
be 1 don’t know how many zilly maids round, 
laughen.” 

It was received in gloomy silence, save 
that Sam Pablington began to whistle 
“ Sweet Helle Mahone.” It sounded like a 
dirge. 

“ Iv my maid l)e with en agen,” said Jim 



“ At the cross-roads there was staiidini^ a discamsolate group." 








354 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Hoiley, ‘‘I’ve clone with she. I won’t be 
too hard, and I’ll give she thease one more 
chance.” 

“ Mother said at dinner-time,” said Dick 
Challey, “ that I be gwain clean off me veed. 
Dang I iv the maids be worth ut, but a 
veller can’t help veelen it.” 

“Just look yonder,” said Benns in a tragic 
whisper, and they turned their heads to look. 
A party of seven, linked together, was coming, 
down the road, Dan Belloes in the middle 
and three girls on either side. The girls’ 
laughter made a merry chorus to Dan’s 
facetiousness. Jim Hoiley noticed with an 
added pang that his Polly was next to the 
soldier. 

Dan turned a smiling face on the suffering 
brotherhood. “ How-de-do, boys? ” he criecl, 
with a wink intended to show what a sad 
dog he was. “ Don’t you wish you was in 
my shoes ? ” 

Ho one answered him, but there were 
many muttered curses that never reached his 
ears. To flaunt his ascendency in their faces 
in this manner was intolerable, insult added 
to mortal injury. 

“Well,” said Jim Hoiley at last, with 
bitter emphasis, “ I’ve done with she vor 
good.” 

“ Look zee,” said Albert Sowle, who was 
scowling like an Adelphi ruffian, and he 
pulled out of his pocket a tobacco-pouch in 
the form of a purse, with the initials “ A. S.” 
worked on it. “ You all zee thik. And look 
here,” and from his other pocket he took a 
paper package which, when unrolled, revealed 
a satin tie of a vivid red hue, slightly soiled 
and frayed. “ She ”—by which he meant 
Kate Lucy—“gave I thik pouch vor a 
Christmas present, and thik tie on my birth¬ 
day. Zome ov ’ee know I’ve weared thik 
tie reg’lar every Zunday. You’ll never zee 
I wearen it agen. Iv ’ she be in when I 
gwoes past the house I shall vling they two 
in the door, and I shall tell she that I’ve 
done. I vallied thik tie, but I’d rather gwo 
to church with nothen on than wear it agen.” 

“ It be enough to make ’ee,” said Benns, 
who was never in favour of violent methods ; 
“but I shouldn’ iv I was you, Bert. I 
should zend it in a parcel.” 

“ I shall vling it in the house, I tell ’ee,” 
said Bert fiercely. “ I’ll show she that it be 
dangerous to play with a man’s veelens. I 
med have known there was no. good in 
carroty hair.” 

“ I’ve done with my maid, too,” said 
Thatcher ruefully. “ I saw she thease 
avternoon as I was gwain hwome to tea, and 


you’d never believe, boys, what she said 
to 1.” 

“ I’d believe anythen now,” said George 
Peters. 

“ I zaid to she—not speaken savage, but 
like I alius do—I zays, ‘ It be very voolish 
ov ’ee, my dear, to run avter thik gurt zinny 
all becos ov his red jacket. It do make ’ee 
look very voolish, my dear,’ zays 1. She did 
zay as how she should please herself, and 
I was only jealous ov a man that was 
zmarter’n 1. I ’Ioav that upzet I a goodish 
lump. ‘ He zinart ? ’ I zays. ‘ I shouldn’ 
like to be zo zmart as Zlow Dan.’ And 
what do ’ee think ? ”—Tom’s tone became 
tragical—“ what do ’ee think she did zay to 
that ? ” 

None of them would venture to guess. 

KSlie did zay, and it be her very words, 
mark ’ee, she did zay, zo uppish as you 
please, ‘ Y^ou’d better gwo and get your hair 
cut a bit sharter and they zilly whiskers 
shaved off. I do hate to zee a man with his 
hair like a hayrick and zilly whiskers down 
his vace.’ That be what slie zaid to I,” and 
Thomas was almost tearful. “ It bain’t long 
ago she did zay she wished she’d got such a 
thick lot ov hair. It be all ’cos thik ass 
have got his head nearly shaved, as I told 
she.” 

“ I tell ’ee what I mean to do,” said Dick 
Challey ; “ I be gwain into Suckton one 
evenen, and I shall pick up with a maid 
there. There be zome very nice uns.” 

“ Ees,” said Bert Sowle, “ I propose avter 
thease wik that we all gwo to Suckton twice 
a wik. We should zoon vind a nice maid 
apiece.” 

“ We will,” said Peters. “ We’ll show 
’em they bain’t the only maids in the world.” 

“ I zay, bwoys,” said Sam Pablington, 
“ let we gwo down the vields and play leap- 
vrog or zummat. Iv they zee we hangen 
round like thease they’ll think we cared. 
Yolks be thro wen off ’bout it. Yather made 
vun ’bout it at tea-time, and old Yickery as 
he passed I tried to be very vunny.” 

The older men had indeed begun to jeer. 
They must be degenerate sort of youths, said 
they, for the maids to run away from them. 
Maids weren’t like that when they were 
courting. 

Private Belloes’ head swelled when he 
found what a sensation he was making, and 
when it was hinted to him that the furious 
lovers might offer battle, he boasted that he 
feared none of them. 

Mr. Sowle, even in the depths of misery, 
was a prudent young man, and he saw Mr. 



Tickerfcon on his 
way to the allot¬ 
ments before, with 
three friends look¬ 
ing on, he made 
his dramatic pro¬ 
test by throwing 
the presents in 
the garden - path. 

Afterwards, being 
Saturday evening, 
tliey walked into 
Suckton and critic¬ 
ally observed the 
unattached maids 
of the town. 

It Avas next day 
that m a 11 e i‘ s 
came to a head. 

Sunday every where 
is the great day 
for the communion 
of lovers, but that 
day deserves to be 
known as Dismal 
Sunday. To aggra¬ 
vate their burden 
our young men 
could observe Pri¬ 
vate Belloes in the 
church gallery ex¬ 
changing nods and 
smiles with the 
maids. It was more 
than manly flesh 
and blood could 
stand, and after 
vaiious desperate schemes had been discussed 
a deputation was appointed to wait on 
Mr. Belloes, in order to point out how wrong 
his conduct was, and to assure him that none 
of them were going to stand it any longer. 
yVith praiseworthy modesty each of them 
found weighty reasons why he should not be 
a member of the deputation, but, finally, Dick 
Challey and Sam Pablington that night had 
an interview with Dan near the churchycird. 

Sam Pablington was spokesman. ‘‘ We 
want to tell ’ee, look zee, in a vriendly Avay, 
and speaken vor all ov we Sam called 
over their names—‘‘that we don’t like your 
gwains-on with our maids. It have to be 
stopped. We ’low that p’raps you didn’ 
know, but it bain’t vair and honest. You 
can pick up witli any maid that haven’t a 
veller, but-” 

Dan laughed derisively. “ I shall walk 
out with any maid I want to,” he said. “ I 
pity the pore maids about here, for it be 


the coming of a soldier. 


Tier stratcoy was rewarded with half an hours te!.e-a-(ete:' 


evident they don’t see a smart veller very 
often.” 

‘‘ L^k zee, thce’st got to stop it,” inter¬ 
posed Dick, Avhose temper Avas up, “or thee’ll 
be made, I can tell ’ee.” 

“ Who by ?” asked Dan. 

“ I, vor one,” said Dick sturdily. 

“ Do ’ee Avant to fight, then ? ” 

‘‘ Ees, iv thee likes, and I’ll give ’ee a gurt 
thrashen.” 

“ Oh, we’ll see,” said the soldier, and with¬ 
out more ado they fell to blows. Dick Avas 
quite Dan’s match physically, but his notion 
of boxing Avas quite elementary, and in a 
short time both his eyes Avere bunged up. 
‘‘ Any more of you as likes to try,” said Dan* 
can come on, and I’ll oblige ’em the same.” 


Thiee days later the fever Avas cured 
Avitli almost miraculous suddenness. PriA'ate 
Belloes one afternoon went into Suckton to 














THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


350 

see a cousin, aud they sat drinking in the 
“ Lion ” until I)an Avas fuddled enougli to 
boast of his conquests over the feminine 
heart. The maids in our village, lie^ said, 
were terril)le fond of him, but he didn t eai’c 
the dust on his boots for the whole i)oilin’ ot 
’em : tliey were the stupidest, ugliest things 
he had come across. Give him the Leltast 
girls ; they was maids with looks and ways. 
And James Piisell, the Suckton grocer’s man, 
who comes twice a week t(A our A illage, heard 
him, and as he is fond of gossip it is un¬ 
necessary to say what occurred on his next 
visit. News flies through the village as 
([uickly and mysteriously as the Kathr ])ost, 
and—well—Pi’ivate Daniel Helloes' I’eign 
was over. 

I believe that it has l)een remarked before 
that lovers have short memories. At any 
rate, in less than a week the lowering 
clouds had given place to sunshine, and J 
know for a positive fact that Jinny Peters 


and ]\[aggie Debbs, to mention no others, 
expressed someAvhat the same opinion as 
Polly Reddout. »^aid Polly to Jim lloiley, 
“ I don't think nothen ov sojers, and never 
did. 1 'low they ])e zmartish in a way, but, 
law ! they be that stnck-iq) and conceited 
they do make I laugh”; and Jim was not 
at all aghast at her audacity, but warmly 
acquiesced. 

If my observation is not at fault, our young 
men did endeavour foi* some time after 
Daniel’s meteoric appearance to be a little 
smarter, and walked with straighter backs 
and a livelier ste]). It is a pity tliat the 
stimulus did not last longer, for I have 
always maintained that a drill-sergeant with 
autocratic poAvers ought to bo maintained in 
every village at the public expense. 

Perhaps it Avould be as aa’cII to mention 
that even before Pi*ivate Helloes liad left the 
village Albert Sowle Avas again Avearing his 
red tie on Sundays. 



”WJIKHK STItKAMS FLOW SOFTLY.” 

From a photograph hg the Woodbury Permanent Photographic Co. 



THE EDITOR’S 

SCRAP-BOOK. 


“My horse has reasoning 
powers, I tell you.” 

“ In what respect particularly ?” 

“ Well, instead of shying at 
that motor-car he edged up to it 
and kicked it.” 


Sunday' School 'Teacher: 
Now, can any of you tell me the 
names of the three great feasts of 
the Jews? 

Small Boy: Please, maam, 
breakfast, dinner, and tea. 


Babbles: That man Jones is 
telling any amount of lies about 
you round the town. ; 

CtRABBLES : I don't mind that, 
so hmg doesn t tell the 

truth. 


ONLY UCMAN ! 

Vkkv Gkown-u.> Youn.; YI.vx: l)on't y..u U.ink your 

be jealous if I stay talkinf? to you so loiif?. 

___ > K(». l)(.Tr old J 


jcail/uo XA. A - r-j 

PiiiDOSornic Wife: No 
when he’s got his golf-coat on 


lhar old Jack! He never 


husband will 
thinks of me 


Customer: What have you in 
the shape of oranges? 

Si’OREKEEBER : Well, madam, 
we have tennis balls. 


Judge : Have yo\i anything to say before the 
Court i)asses sentence ? . r t 

Prisoner: Well, all 1 got to say ^ 

you’ll consider the extreme youth ot my lawje , 
and let me oft easy. 


An old tanner, who was in the habit of eating 
what was set before him, asking no questions was 
samviling a big restaurant on his hrst visit to 
London." 'I'lie waiter gave hiiii “‘'Ij 

and explained that it was the list of dishes se ted 
for dinner that day. Accordingly the ^ j 

Ilian beo-aii at the to]) ol the bill ol laie, and 
ordered each thing in turn until lie had 
about one-third of it. 'L’he prosiiect of ^hat ^ 
still before him was too ovei'iiowering, yet t»eic wc e 
some things at the end that lie wanted to try. Ue 
called the waiter, and, ooufidentia ly maikin^ oti 
the spaces on the card with his index ' 1 ’ 

“ Look here, Pve et from thar to thar. Can 1 skip 
from that to here and eat on to tlie bottom . 


THE LUXURY OF LOAFING. 

One time I fixed my work all up. There wa n t no 
Sayfr^l’U enjoy a day of loafin' through and 

, wo^^Vdo any readin'. 'cause a book your mind will 
An’^when you're thinkin' thoughts, of course, you 
ni^have'the^^Tdreamin' has so long and 

i",’H^£S'Vry‘potLt,TwX 

An'^S’hef ^sat down a-waitin' while the lazy hours 
An'Then'’r’th.ught I'd lose all earthly cares in 
An'1h™t'l th"e" hrst time in my life I ever couldn't 
1 g?abb’’ed an axe an' jumped right in, fur fair. 

To e;se“5i’y"ne'^vet An nothin' ever done me so 
much good. , jt o’er anew, 

An’ so I’ve loafin’— ’ceptin’ when 

That there ain’t much fun in loann ^ y 

there’s work to do. ^Washington Star. 


S.")? 
























358 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


Schoolmaster : Don’t you know how to spell ? 
Phonetic Boy : Oh, yes, I know how to spell 
right enough ; but the men who wrote the diction- 
ai-ies don’t seem to. 



Amiable Plutocrat ; But riches do not brino- 
happiness. ’ 

Unamiable Pauper: But 1 ain’t looking for 
happiness. I should be quite satisfied with com¬ 
fort. 



Youthful Inquireb : Pa, what’s a lineal des- 
Cendant? 

Pa : He is generally someone who is trying to 
get through the world on a reputation somebody 
made before he was born. 


Mrs. Gasser : Then is it true that messages 
sent by wireless telegraphy pass right through the 
air we breatho ? 

Mr. G. ; Yes, that’s quite correct. 

^ Mrs. G. ; Then what happens if a man who has 
just sent olf a telegram swallows his words on his 
way home again ? 



Mother (sternly): Just look at your clothes! 
Its not the slightest use to try to keep you clean! 

Tommy (eagerly) : Then, aren’t you going to try 
any more ? 



“ Medicine,” said the little girl, “ is something 
that makes you be careful not to catch cold 
again.” 



ONE OF OUR curate’s REMINISCENCES OF THE WAR. 

Curate (to wife of Reservist who has gone to the front); Don’t give way so, my good woman In all 
probability your husband will come back safe and sound. woman. all 

when^’TstortsT’® P®''® '■ I know wot a terror Hill is 


“I SEE by the newspa])ers,” remarked Beeder, 
“ that the miners in the Klondike are sending out 
appeals for wives.” 

‘‘ Is that so ? ” ejaculated Hennypeck, in an eager 
whisper. “ Then I’m sure they can have mine.” 



‘‘ You are not opaque, are you ? ” said the sar¬ 
castic man to another who was standing in fiont 
of him at the theatre. 

“ Faith, and I’m not,” was the unperturbed reply. 
“ My name is O’Brien.” 


Wife : The price of the garden hose was thirty 
shillings, but I got a discount, so it only cost me 
twenty-five. 

Husband : But you could have got the same 
thing at the Stores for a guinea! 

Wife : Possibly so; but then they wouldn’t 
have taken anything off, you know. 



It is curious how Nature deals in compensations. 
For instance, the more a woman is ahead of her 
times, the more her gowns are behind them. 











































Zoo ©ID a JBirD, 

Genial Yachtsman : Hullo, Dicky ! just the man I want! Come for a sail in my yacht ? 
Sceptical Dick : No, thanks, dear boy ! Awfully sorry, but haven’t got my bathing suit with me. 









THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




IDEALA. 

When noiseless nig-ht, with starry eyes 
And cool, clear glance, has put to rout 
The restless spectres that arise 
While busy day is yet about; 

Then through my waking fancy gleams 
A vision 1 will ne’er resign — 

The magic maiden of my dreams, 

The girl who never will be mine. 

You smile at me and shake your head, 
You deem me “sentimental boy,” 

And hint when future years have fled 
Such fantasies will lose their joy. 

Nigh twenty years have come and gone 
Since manhood thrilled me with its sign 
Yet constantly she becks me on — 

The girl who never will be mine. 


Nay, think her not another’s bride. 

This peerless princess of the night, 

And, moralising, start to chide, 

Or glibly talk of wrong and right. 

I tell you nay—mine eyes alone 
In hers have seen the love-light shine, 
There—on Imagination’s throne I 
The girl who never will be mine. 

AH day I watch with wistful gaze 
The surging throngs that crowd the street. 
As if. expecting in the maze 
At last my dear dream-friend to meet. 

But though grim failure flout my zeal. 

No one shall desecrate the shrine. 

Or drive from me my heart’s Ideal— 

The girl who never will be mine I 

A rtf I ur U i cketf. 



KNMGHTKXMEXT. 


Cycli.st : "Wliere does this road lead to ? 

Kustic : Ef yer go that way it leads to my ’ome, an’ ef ver go t’other wav it 
goes straight on. 




























11)18 3 Favoiu-lte afare. 

Fkom the Picture by J. Ayton Symington. 






DISTINGUISHED 


DEVOTEES 


I N a previous issue of tlie 
Windsor Magazine, an 
article, entitled, “ Photo¬ 
graphy as a Eoyal ITobby,” 
testified by text and picture to 
the present-day popularity in the 
cliarmed circle of Royalty of 
what has been curtly termed 
“ the camera craze.” The 
present paper is intended to 
amplify this interesting snliject 
and to set forth some furthei’ 
photographic exploits of well- 
known people. 

Society has been somewhat 
discourteously compared with a 
spoilt child in the selection of 
its playthings—or fads, as the 
society journals have it; what 
is new one day is stale and old- 
fashioned the next, lienee, in 
discussing most aristocratic 
hobbies, one is constrained to 
be at once an opportunist and a 
cautious critic ; the fickle wheel 
of pleasure moves so rapidly, 
yet so erratically: temjjora 
mutantnos et mutamur in 
iUis. But in photography, 
perliaps,^ the matter is different. This is virtually a scientific pursuit. Society has fallen 
deeply in love with it, of that there can be little doubt. The principal reason for this 
increasing affection for a fascinating pastime is not far to seek ; every film or plate that is 
properly exposed leaves a definite and tangible result behind it, and a product, too, which is 
aided by art and by actual personal handicraft, and Avhicli is not represented in pounds, 
shillings, and pence. Aniriteur photography, then, from its personal, artistic, and domestic 
character, has become a recognised diversion or pursuit with the leisured classes. What is 
the more noticeable is the fact that at present no signs of a decline in popularity are 
apparent on the horizon : and just as a leisured man’s friends regard him as “unfinished ” 
till he has travelled at least once round the globe, so does that man consider himself 
inadequately ecpiipped for the journey if his “ traps ” do not include a camera. 

It is really a matter for amazement how the craze for taking one’s own pictures has 
grown. And not only taking them in the sense of simply exposing the sensitised film 
to the deft agency of light, but in the far more practical and irksome business of developing, 
September, 1900. 363 2 C 2 


TI.R.H. THE DUCHESS OF YORK AT CANNES. 
From a photograph by Lady Gertrude Jlolyneux. 



804 


T?JE WTXDSOll MAGAZTNE^ 



TllK LATE AKCII13ISI10P BENSON. 

From a }>Uotoyrap1t by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 

printing, and toning, after yon liave pressed 
tlie button. When “snapshooting” first 
entered tlie field, society was loth to soil its 
liands in a dark-room with “ beastly clleini- 
cals ” ; all it did was to “ take ” the plioto 
and then despatch tlie plate to a professional 
finisher, rejoicing in its own ])rowess when 
the print came back spick and span from 
the toning bath. Bnt that was only a 
teioporary passion. An insatiable desire to 
find out how the wheels went round took 
possession of the more scientifically inclined 


C _ 

minds ; and now, what do we find ? Artificial, 
self-imposed honour? Certainly not. Every 
real enthusiast revels in a dark-room and all 
the approved stock-in-trade and paraphernalia 
of a recognised artist. 

Lady Gertrude Molynenx, the daughter of 
the fourth Earl of Sefton, bas taken some 




DISTINGUISIIEIJ DEVOTEES OF THE CAMERA. 



7'cally excellent pie- 
tures, since 

they include an in¬ 
teresting portrait of 
H. R. H. tl 1 e 1) ucliess 
of York, are here 
given tlie place of 
honour. They 
might Avell, as our 
illustrations show, 
vie with any of the 
best stereoscopic 
work produced by 
London experts. 

Lady Gertrude, who 
has a commodious 
workshop in the 
lower regions of 
Hans House, Hans 
Street, is a past- 
mistress in artistic 
effect. A practical 
adept as well as a 
keen enthusiast, she has handled a camera 
since 1882 ; and from that time till the 


TYNINCIIIAME, rilMSTONKIIlK : T-OIil) IIADDINGTON’s SKAT. 
From a pliotogra]>h by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 


present she lias put together a portfolio of 
portraits and views exceedingly interesting to 



LORD WANTAGE, V.(;. 

From a photograph by Lady Gertrude .Volyneux. 




THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


3G6 



A SURREY PASTURE SCENE. 

From a iihotograph by Lady dertrude Molyneux. 



inspect. Not only does she print and develop 
her own photographs, bnt she makes her own 
enlargements—a complicated process nsnally 
relegated by the amateur to the skilled 
professional. 

The studies of 
the late Arch¬ 
bishop of Canter¬ 
bury and of Lord 
Wantage, Y.C., 
are perhaps her 
best efforts in 
fall - length por¬ 
traiture. Both 
are admirable like¬ 
nesses—especially 
the former, which 
was taken in April, 

1895, daring the 
last visit bnt one 
which Dr. Benson 
paid to the charm¬ 
ing Florentine 
residence of Lady 
Crawford, the 
Villa Palmieri, 
near Florence. 

The Archbishop 
described the Villa 
as “ most fresh 

and beautiful, with its glorious views and 
brilliant flowers, hyacinths, tulips, magnolia, 
Judas trees, etc., but for greenness scarcely so 
forward as Lambeth G-arden.” Here it was 


THE CHIT.DREN OF THE TOWER LODGE, ABBEY'STEAD, 
From a photograph by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 


that the late Primate fonnd a haven of peace 
where he might recoup his fallen energies 
after months of anxious toil; and from here 
it Avas that, accompanied by Mrs. Benson, he 

Avould set out to 
visit, not once, 
but often, the 
many beautiful 
a n d historic 
churches and 
pictarcs of Avhich 
he Avas so fond. 
Lady Gertrude 
Molyneux, a 
valued friend, 
is mentioned in 
the Archbishop’s 
diary; it Avas Avith 
her that he visited 
for the second 
time the liauren- 
tian Library, re¬ 
marking that it 
impressed him 
Avith its beauty 
and magniflcence. 
In Dr. Benson’s 
OAvn Avords Ave get 
a luminous de¬ 
scription of some 
of its treasures : “ BoAved before the Pan¬ 
dects, and adored the Codex Amiatorius 
again. If everything else AA^ere buried, this 
is enough to shake us into some understanding 










DISTINGUISHED DEVOTEES OF THE CAMERA. 


8G7 



of what Anglo- 
Saxons were. 

Made love to 
the Sophocles 
and Aeschylus, 
the Virgil, 
the Tacitus, 

Petrar ell’s, 

P e n V e n n 1 0 
Cellini’s auto¬ 
graphs. Held 
onr breath 
over the choir 
books and 
other great 
sights. 
were most 
kindly accom¬ 
panied by the 
Prefetto him¬ 
self, Barone 
P 0 (lest a — a 
h a n d s 0 m e 
Huxley to see to.” AYliile at Florence for the 
last time, that is, a year later—he died at 
Hawarden six months after -Dr. Benson 
divided his time between revising and 
correcting the proof-sheets of his ‘‘ Cyprian ” 


and revisiting 
the unsurpass¬ 
able beauties 
of the Italian 
Piviera. In 
Florence it was 
that the Arch¬ 
bishop revised 
and re - wrote 
h is famous 
letter to Lord 
Halifax re¬ 
garding the 
Corporate Re¬ 
union of the 
Fj n g 1 i s h 
Church with 
that of Rome, 
con c e r 11 i n g 
w hic h his 
Grace had, a 
feAV days be¬ 
fore, talked 
with. Loi'd Halifax at the Villa Palmieri. It 
is interesting to notice that his hostess. 
Lady CraAvford, was inclined strongly 
to favour Lord Halifax, though she 
admitted that he minimised the difficulties 


'J’llK KHKCHTIIKUM AT ATIIKNS. 
From a j)liotograi)h by Lord Battersea. 




A CARTIIAGINTAN SOLDIER. 
Prom a photograph by Lord Battersea. 


A MESSENGER FROM THE PRINCE OF ^lONTENEGRO. 
From a photograph by Lord Battersea. 














368 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




ST. George’s ciiapel, Windsor. 
From a 'plioiograx>h hy the Karl of Dartmouth. 


on liis own side towards the sn<j’<i:ested 
union. 

The fnll-lengtli 
portrait of H.R.H. 
the Dnchess of 
York, taken at 
Cannes eight years 
ago, recalls the 
pathetic event of 
the death of the 
])nke of Clarence, 
to whom Princess 
May had been so 
lately affianced. It 
will be seen that 
the Duchess is in 
mourning for the 
late Prince. Lady 
C ertrude Moly neux 
is a pprsona f/rata 
at Court, and she 
has repeatedly had 
the ho 11 our of 
photographing, in 
in a n y of the 
Ihiropean capitals, 
royal groups and 
royal individuals. 

The same artist’s 


very distinct photograph on page 365 
represents the country seat of the 
Earl of Haddington, Tyninghame, 
Pi’estonkirk ; and that pretty little 
picture wliich Lady Gertrude has 
quaintly termed “ The Children of 
tlie Tower Lodge ” depicts the two 
winsome daughters of tlie lodge- 
keeper attached to iVbbeystead. Lord 
Sefton’s beautiful domain at Lan¬ 
caster. Tlie handsome features of 
I^ord Whintage, given to the camera 
in 1896 in the drawing-room of his 
own house at Wantage, Berks, recall 
the most famous of the many 
interesting facts connected with this 
veteran soldier’s career—his valour 
ill the Crimean canqiaign, crowned 
by the presentation of the Victoria 
Cross for conspicuous gallantry at 
Alma and Inkermaiin ; his untiring 
zeal in promoting the welfare of 
recruits in the Army; and his humane 
and indefatigable work as chairman 
of the English Red Cross Society. 

If photography be her most ab¬ 
sorbing hobby, Lady Gertrude Moly- 
neux has several others. She is an 
avid antiquarian, and possesses a by 
no means insignificant collection of 
Florentine sculptures and old Biblical studies 
—in her photographic collection, by the way. 


CORINTH CANAL. 

Krorti a photograph hy the Karl of Dartvumth. 







DISTILS GUISHJ^D DEVOTEES OE THE CAM Ell A. 


;-U)U 


is a first-class copy 
of the fly-leaf of 
the Bible belongiiie,’ 
to Charles T. Lady 
Oertrude is, inore- 
0 V e r, a ii a dept 
ivory-tiiriier ; at 
Hans House, a 
^yorkshop, replete 
Avith lathe and 
every modern tool, 
and adorned with 
many and various 
fruits of labour,tells 
of delicate turning 
in ivory, wood, and 
brass. She has re¬ 
cently turned her 
attention to the 
fascinating study of 
the Rontgen Bays, 
and I was privi¬ 
leged to see several 
excellent repro¬ 
ductions by X 
Rays. 

To find Lord 
Battersea an expert 


LTCTIFIKLT) CATIIEDKAL FROM THE RISIIOP’S OARDEN. 
From a photograph hy the Earl of Dartmouth. 


it photography is not 


likely to provoke surprise, for he is proficient 


in so many branches of science and is a 
lover of art in all its forms. The once 


A CORSICAN BRIDGE. 

From a photograph by the Earl of Dartiuoath. 


870 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




Tin^ PIAZZA SAN MAIICO, VKNICE. 
From a photograph by the Earl of Dartmouth. 


Mr. Cyril Flower, M.P., who liad tlie enviable 
reputation of being the handsomest man in 
the FTouse of Commons, who mai’ried a 
Kothschild, and wlio is one of the most 
popular Liberal peers of the day, has travelled 
seldom of late without a kodak. His collec¬ 
tion of snapshots, enlargements of some of 
which have won 
him prizes and 
diplomas in Lon- | 
don and Vienna, is K 
one of the best I 
had the pleasure of 
examining. Lord 
Battersea, wlio, by 
the way, won the 
House of Commons’ 

Steeplecliase in 
1889, is an art 
connoisseur of con¬ 
siderable fame. At 
his splendid house 
opposite the Marble 
Arch he possesses 
many valual)le 
paintings, includ¬ 
ing the “Annunci¬ 
ation,” of Burne- 
Jones, an original 
“Madonna and 
Child,” by Botti¬ 
celli, and several 
noted masterpieces 
in portraiture by 


- Rubens, IMoroni, 
Whistler, and 
^lorretti. He is a 
keen devotee of 
- yachting, hunting, 

^ 1)otany, and gar- 

33 dening, and has 

“ done ” Europe as 
have few other 
men of his age. 

He succeeded, 
when at Athens, 
in taking an excel¬ 
lent plioto of the 
famous Erec- 
theum, the ancient 
Ionic te m p 1 e 
which faces the 
still larger Par¬ 
thenon. In an¬ 
cient times part 
of the Erectheum 
was the temple of 
Pallas Athene, 
which contained 
the wooden image of the goddess and formed 
the centre of her worship ; but this suffered 
from lire in the Persian war. It was reserved 
for Pericles to commence the restoration of 
so sacred a building, which in its present 
form consists of a huge cellar extending 
from east to west, in which, tradition says. 


thp: riAzzA san makco, Venice. 
From a photograph by the Earl of Dartmouth 










DTSTINGUISHED DEVOTEES OF THE CAMERA 


371 



C a r t lui g i n i a 11 
soldier and was 
taken at Carthage 
i n a V e ry high 
wind. JiOrd Bat¬ 
tersea, when taking 
this pliotograph, 
was facing the well- 
known college 
f 0 n n d e d h j 
Cardinal Langerie. 
That Avonderfnl 
Grecian chasm, the 
Yale of Tempe, 
Thessaly, has re¬ 
ceived very effec¬ 
tive pictorial treat¬ 
ment at the hands 
of Lord Battersea. 
This place is one of 



AN AMKiaCAN TUSON 
AT WOlU’KN AniiKV. 

Erect hens was 
buried, liord Bat¬ 
tersea’s pliotograph 
was sliown in an 
enlarged form at 
tlie great Inter¬ 
national Exhibition 
at the New Gallery 
and obtained a first 
prize. His other 
efforts which apjiear 
in tliis article depict 
types of Eastern 
soldiers—the one in 
the doorway was 
taken in Greece and 
shows a messenger 
from the Prince of 
IMontenegro to 
Tjord Battersea; the 
other represents a 



THK DUKE OF BEDFORD’S KTANG, OR WILD ASS OF THIBET. 
Three photographs by the Duchess of Bedford. 



THE WINDSOn MAGAZINE. 




S72 


SIR JAMKS rKNDEK, BART, ON BOARD IIIS YACHT “FLORINDA," AT KIEL, 

JUNE 23, 1891). 

From (f phoiograph by Lady Pender. 


the rural delights of the trav¬ 
eller. It possesses nearly four 
and a half miles of luxui’iant 
vegetation vith wooded glades, 
at intervals opening out at the 
foot of the cliffs. A broad, 
winding river adds its effect to 
the ])ictnre, and towards the 
middle of the pass, Avhere the 
rocks are highest, the precipices 
in the direction of Olympus fall 
so steeply as to bar the passage 
on that side, while the rocks on 
the Ossan side rise in many 
})laces 1,500 feet from the 
valley. The ruins of a number 
of castles are visible. These 
were doubtless built by the 
0 reeks to defend the vale from 
invasion. It was by this route 
that Jidius Cccsar arrived be¬ 
fore the battle of Pharsalia. 

Another versatile photo¬ 
grapher is the Earl of Dart¬ 
mouth. A glance at the titles 
of bin specimens will show 
their here - there - and - every - 
where locale. The beautiful 
picture Lord Dartmouth took 
ill Corsica., of the Ponte Leula, is one of 
many picturesque landscapes reminiscent of 


travel in foreign climes. We also get a 
very distinct view of the eastern end of 
St. George’s Chapel at Royal 
Windsor, in which so many 
memorable services have been 
held : a corner of the Bishop 
of LichfiekPs garden, showing 
the central tower (280 feet 
high) and the two western 
towers (each 10;l feet in height) 
of Lichfield Cathedral, which 
was probably constructed on 
the site of the old Norman 
church, at the beginning of 
the thirteen til century ; and 
two well - defined snapshots 
taken in Yenice and repro¬ 
ducing the famous Piazza S. 
Yar(;o, flagged with marble 
and bounded on three sides 
by the arcaded palaces of the 
Procurators. Lord Dartmouth 
is a staunch admirer of watery 
Venice, with its ^'aporous sea- 
mists, its horizon of waves and 
the distant Euganean hills, its 
marble churches and ])alaces 
glorified by the genius of 
Pisano, Sansovino, Titian, and 
Veronese. Again, it was left 


LADY PENDER ON llIE “fI.ORINDA," AT KIEI., JUNE 23, 1899. 
From a photograph by Sir James Pender, Bart. 









DTSTlNdUISHED DEVOTERS OR THE OAMERA. 



THE RACE FOR THE EIMPEROR’S CUP : YACHTS STARTING FROM DOVER FOR HELIGOEAND, JUNE 19, 1899. 


for the some¬ 
time Conser¬ 
vative AVliip 
ill tlie House 
of Commons, 
and the owner 
of n e a r1y 
20,000 acres, 
to secure tlie 
only photo¬ 
graph of Cor¬ 
inth Canal 
taken within 
the steep walls 
which form 
it. Corinth 
Canal has had 
a remarkable 
history. It 
was projected 
by Alexander 
the Great, re¬ 



solved on by 
Jnlins Cmsar, 
a n d CO m - 
menced by 
Nero, the 
traces of 
whose nii- 
finished work 
still remain a 
few linndred 
yards from 
the Corinth¬ 
ian Gulf. 
Four miles 
long, costing 
about one and 
a half mil¬ 
lions, and 
e V e n tn ally 
Carrie d 
through. in 
1882 , the 



YACHTS IN KIEI. HARBOUR. 


Three photographs hy Sir James Pender, Bart. 






















874 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




CAPT. MULLINS, OF II.M.S. “ TKliRIRl.F,” AND PILOT ON 
RACING OFF KIEL. 

From a photofjraph by Sir James Pender, Bart. 

Canal offers a valuable short cut between 
several of the ports of the j\Iecliterranean 
and the Black Sea. The 
magnitude of the engineering 
operations may be grasped 
when it is stated that the 
central portion traverses a cut¬ 
ting in rock of which the 
maximum depth is 280 feet. 

Zoology is the favoni’ite snl)- 
ject upon which tlie Dncliess 
of Bedford expends her photo¬ 
graphic zeal. Her Grace’s 
ruling hobby is the study and 
care of animals; and wlien 
she took to photography, with 
such excellent results as are 
depicted in these pages, it was 
little wonder that her albums 
included pictures of all sorts 
and conditions of four-footed 
beasts and domestic pets, taken 
in all parts of the world. But 
it is at Wobiun Abbey, where 
the Duchess has a zoological 
collection, the envy of many 
and the source of never-failing 
interest to her numerous guests, 
that dumb ‘‘ sitters ” hnd the 
readiest welcome. Every 


member of the Duchess of 
Bedford’s private menagerie 
has, at one time or another, 
had the honour of being 
photographed by its devoted 
owner, who also extends to 
her sitters the favour of 
“ copyrighting ” every print 
that the negative produces. 
“ Goblin,” the famous Siamese 
cat, which presents such an 
immaculate appearance on its 
cushioned pedestal that one 
is forgiven for assuming that 
it had been asked to “look 
])leasant,” is a great favourite 
in the Woburn household—as, 
indeed, are all things con¬ 
nected with tlie East. It is 
only a feAV years since the 
Duchess, then the gifted and 
versatile daughter of Arch¬ 
deacon Tribe, of Lahore, spent 
six years in India, prosecuting 
her studies in natural history 
and zoology, while at the 
same time she became an 
expert horsewoman, a deft 
angler, and a daring shot. It 
was only natural, then, that on her marriage 
with a great landowner who was also devoted 


‘ FLORINDA, 


THE ‘‘ FLORINDA ” ENTERING TERSCIIELLING IN A WESTERLY GALE 
From a photograph by Sir James Pender, Bart. 






DISTTNOriSlIED DEVOTEES OF THE CAMERA, 


'6i0 


to animals she 
should improvise at 
her country seat a 
private wild-beast 
show, where many 
of the animals she 
had known person- 
ally in their 
far-away homes 
should hud still 
more comfortable 
quarters. AVith her 
own hands the 
Duchess fre(jnently 
tends to tlie wants 
of her various 
charges, and with 
her own camera her 
Grace o])tains in¬ 
stantaneous por¬ 
traits — A\diich are 
usually enlarged to 
7 in. by b in.—to 
perpetuate their 
memories when 
death or decay has 



THE THEATRE AT SYRACUSE. 

From a photograph by Sir Thomas Bazley, Bart. 



THE PRIVATE YACHT OF PRINCESS DE POIX. 
From a photograph tahen by Her Royal Highness. 






THE WiyUEOR MAGAZINE, 


»)7 () 




removed them. Fearless and triiiiied 
in tlie nsefnl methods of approaeliin^: 
semi-wild animals, the Duchess of 
Bedford will venture nearer than 
anyone on her vast estate to the 
members of her three hundred. The 
admirable picture she has secured of 
the American bison, which looks for 
all the world as if it were solilo¬ 
quising on its native heath, was 
taken scarcely ten yards from the 
subject. 

We now turn to the pictorial work 
accomplished by 8ir James Peiider, 

M.P., the distinguished son of a 
worthy father. Loving the sea, and 
a yachtsman of well-known ability and 
recognised position. Sir James has 
“ snapped ” chiefly on water. Tlie 
result is instructive as well as cntei- 
taining. Most of his snapshots ])ro- 
duced in these j)ages were taken by 
Sir Janies Pender in the June of 
last year, when, accompanied by Lady 
Pender, he took his beautifid and 
fast-running Florinda to Kiel. Here Sir 
James secured many excellent photos, in¬ 
cluding several realistic views of the race for 
the Emperor’s Cup from Dover to Heligoland. 
Kiel, the most important naval harbour of 


THE SUSPENSION EEKUY AT BIZEIITA. 
Prom a photograiili hy Sir Thomas Iknleip B jrt. 


Cermany, and the station of the German 
Baltic Fleet, is the recognised centre of 
German yachting ; all the keenest English 
yachtsmen go there for the season, Avhich 
loses nothing by offering fine sea-bathing 
and very picturesque scenery. Its 
charms may be said to be manifold ; 
one might well spend a whole day 
inspecting (at a distance) the strong 
fortifications by which the harbour 
at Kiel is guarded, or at the lm])erial 
dockyards, where increased activity 
is now the order of the day. 

Last, but by no means least in 
this series, comes Sir Thomas Bazley, 
who may be said to be the doyen of 
them all. Sir Thomas is at once 
an artist who understands each 
subject he portrays, and a travel¬ 
ler possessed of a comprehensive 
knowledge of its history and its 
associations. Probably no man— 
and certainly no woman—has accom¬ 
plished in his lifetime so much as 
this enthusiastic veteran in the fields 
of amateur Continental photography; 
and he can consequently speak with 
weight and authority on this matter. 
Here is what 8ir Thomas lour- 
teously wrote me from his house 
at Bournemouth West : “ Cautions 
have often been given, and dis¬ 
regarded, against unauthorised pho¬ 
tography in foreign countries, h’rans- 


TIIE UUINS OF EPIPOL-E, NEAR SYRACUSE. 
Prum a photograph by Sir Thomas Pazlcy, Bart. 












DISTINGUISH ElJ 


DEVOTEES OF THE CAMERA. 


Nil 


gressioii is so tempting, mid so easy, 
and the regulations in different places 
are so niiequal. In many, as Cannes, 
Naples, Messina, Malta, etc., tlie 
camera may be used with impunity, 
except in the vicinity of actual forti¬ 
fications ; and tlie same in x41giers 
itself; but in other parts of that 
French colony the pursuit is hazard¬ 
ous. At Philippeville, one of my 
party, innocently taking snapshots, 
was followed by a detective, and 
finally apprehended, oidy escaping 
serious inconvenience by an appeal 
to the British Consul.” 

Very entertaining is this baronet’s 
photographic scrap-book. All his 
specimens are first-class reproduc¬ 
tions, and each is a reminder of 
some interesting event in history, 
commercial progress, or the lives of 
the illustrious dead. 

In Cannes, two years ago. Sir 
Thomas Bazley secured the two pic¬ 
turesque local photos reproduced. It 
was then a Cannes with the harbour 




STATUE OF LORD BROUGHAM AT CANNES. 
From a photograph by Sir Thomas Bazley, Bart. 


CHATEAU THORENC, LORD RENDEL’s 
VILLA AT CANNES, WHERE MR. GLAD¬ 
STONE STAYED .JUST BEFORE HIS LAST 
ILLNESS. 

From a photograph by Sir Thomas Bazley, 
Bart. 

singularly empty at a fashionable 
time of the year—a fact which 
was probably due to the ‘‘war 
scare ” arising from the Fashoda 
incident, Avhich somewhat fool- 
ishly prevented many tourists, 
both by land and sea, from 
visiting the Riviera. The statue 
of Lord Brougham, the dis¬ 
coverer of Cannes as a winter 
resort, is well placed an.l provides 
a satisfactory picture. So does 
the ( liateau Thorenc, Lord Ren- 
del’s villa, where Mr. Gladstone 
so frequently stayed. Its archi¬ 
tecture is imposing, and the 
])osition and surrounding gar¬ 
dens magnificent ; its masonry, 
thongdi by no means of recent 
erection, is as bright and as 
clean as when freshly tooled. 

From Cannes let us go to 
Syracuse. Coasting above Sicily, 
one may enjoy a fine view of 
snow-capped Etna in favourable 
Aveather, at too great a distance, 
however, for successful photo¬ 
graphy. Syracuse is deeply 














THH WIXDSOR MAGAZINE. 



interesting, with its 
F 0 n 11 1 a i n o f 
Aretlnisa, ancient 
temples, narrow 
streets, and quaint 
shops, the Ear of 
Dionysius, and the 
ruins of a Dreek 
theatre and Roman 
amphitheatre. The 
ruins of Epipohn 
are a few miles dis¬ 
tant, and include 
tlie fortress of 
Euryalns, with its 
deep steps and rock- 
liewn passages. On 
the summit, where 
some of the party 
stand, a rnagnilicent 
panorama is ob¬ 
tained, including 
snowy Etna and a 
long range of plain 
to the north, where tuk 

many an ancient From a 

hattie was fought, 

besides the great harbour and Syracuse itself. 

A unique picture is that which depicts the 
famous suspension ferry at Bizerta. Half 
a day’s sail from Tunis, Bizerta is a Moorish 
and Arab settlement, whose chief feature is 
an inland lake, in wliicli it is said all the 
warships of the world could find anchorage 
simultaneously. A wide canal forms the 
entrance from the Mediterranean, and is 
spanned by a suspension ferry wliich was 
erected at great cost. The horizontal girders 


“SANTA CKCILIA AT CANNES. 
p1iotograj)li by Sir TJioinas Bazley, Bart. 

are high enough to permit the most stately 
ship to pass beneath them; but the steam 
engine which at that great elevation propels 
the traversing car is deficient in power, and 
in. strong winds is often unable to complete 
tlie transit. The inliabitants, by the Avay, 
who are both black and dusky, decidedly 
object to being photographed. Probably 
they suspect the camera lens to be an 
impersonation of ‘Hhe evil eye.” 

A. AVallts Myers. 



KEFOEE THE START FOR THE EMPEROR’s CUP, DOVER, JUNE, 1899. 
From a photograph by Sir James Pender, Bart, 













YOUNG BARBARIANS. 


By IAN MACLAEEN.* 

Illustrated hy Harold Copping, 
No. lY.—A LAST EESORT. 


HAT tlie 
Rector 
should be 
ill and ab¬ 
sent from 
his classes 
from time 
to time 
was quite 
in the 
order of 
things, be¬ 
cause he was a scholar and absent-minded 
to a degree—going to bed in the morning, 
and being got out of bed in rather less than 
time for his work ; eating when it occurred 
to him, but preferring, on the whole, not to 
eat at all; wearing very much the same 
clothes summer and winter, and if he added 
a heavy top-coat, more likely putting it on 
in the height of summer and going without 
it when there were ten degrees of frost. It 
was not for his scholarship, but for his 
peculiarities, that the school loved him ; not 
because he edited a ‘‘ Cicsar ” and compiled 
a set of Latin exercises, for which perfectly 
unnecessary and disgusting labours the school 
hated him, but because he used to arrive at 
ten minutes past nine, and his form was able 
to jeer at Bulldog’s boys as they hastened 
into their class-room with much discretion at 
one minute before the hour. Because he 
used to be so much taken up with a happy 
phrase in Horace that he would forget the 
presence of his class, and walk up and down 
before the fireplace, chortling aloud ; and 
because sometimes he was so hoarse that he 
could only communicate with the class by 
signs, which they unanimously misunder¬ 
stood. Because he would sometimes be 
absent for a whole week, and his form was 
thrown in with another, mth the result of 
much enjoyable friction and an almost 
perfect neglect of work. He was respected 
and never was annoyed, not even by ruffians 


* Coiwriglit, 1900, by John Watson, in the United 
States of America. 


like Howieson, because everyone knew that 
the Rector was an honourable gentleman, 
with all his eccentric ways, and the Muirtown 
Advertiser had a leader every spring on the 
achievements of his scholars. Edinburgh 
professors who came to examine tlie school 
used to fill up their speeches on the prize-day 
with graceful compliments to the Rector, 
supported by classical quotations, during 
which the boys cheered rapturously and the 
Rector looked as if he were going to be 
hung. He was one of the recognised glories 
of Muirtown, and was freely referred to at 
municipal banquets by bailies whose hearts 
had grown merry within them drinking the 
Queen’s health, and was associated in the 
peroration to the toast of “ the Fair City ” 
with the North Meadow and the. Fair Maid, 
and the River Tay and the County Gaol. 

Bulldog was of another breed. Whatever 
may have been his negligences of dress and 
occupation in private life—and on this sub¬ 
ject Nestie and Spiug told fearful lies—he 
exhibited the most exasperating regularity in 
public, from his copper-plate handwriting to 
his speckless dress, but especially by an in¬ 
human and absolutely sinful punctuality. 
No one with a heart within him and some 
regard to the comfort of his fellow creatures, 
especially boys, had any right to observe 
times and seasons with such exactness. 
During all our time, except on the one great 
occasion I wish to record, he was never 
known to be ill, not even with a cold ; and 
it was said that he never had been for a day 
off duty, even in the generation before us. 
His erect, spare frame, without an ounce of 
superfluous flesh, seemed impervious to 
disease, and there was a feeling in the 
background of our minds that for any 
illness to have attacked Bulldog would have 
been an act of impertinence which he would 
have known how to deal with. It was 
firmly believed that for the last fifty years— 
and some said eighty, but that was poetry 
—Bulldog had entered his class-room every 
morning, except on Saturdays, Sundays, and 
liolidays, at 8.50, and was ready to begin 



379 
















880 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


work at the stroke of nine. There was a 
pleasant story that in the days of onr fathers 
there had been snch a fall of snow and so 
fierce a wind that the bi’idge had been 
drifted np, and no one could cross that 
inorniiii^ from tlie other side. The boys 
from tlie south side of the town had bronglit 
news of the drift to the school, and the 
earlier arrivals, who had come in hope of a 
snow-fight, were so mightily taken with the 
news that they hurried to the Mnirtown end 
of the bridge to look at the drift, and danced 
with joy at the thought that on the other 


of it they opened the door of the mathematical 
class-room, merely to see how it looked when 
Bulldog was not there, and found that 
estimable teacher at his desk, waiting to 
receive them with bland courtesy. Some 
said that he had stayed in Mnirtown all 
night, anticipating that drift, others that he 
had clijnbed over it in the early morning, 
before Mnirtown was awake ; but it was 
found out afterwards that he had induced 
old Duncan Borison, the salmon fisher, to 
ferry him across the flooded river, that it 
took them an hour to reach the Mnirtown 



side Bulldog was standing, for once helpless 
and dismayed. Sping’s father, true ancestor 
of such a son, had shouted aci’oss the 
drift invitations for Ihilldog to come over, 
secure in the fact that he could not be seen 
across its height, and in the hope that Bull¬ 
dog would not know his voice. When they 
were weary celebrating the event, and after 
a pleasant encounter with a hastily organised 
regiment of message boys, the eager scholars 
sauntered along to the school, skirmishing as 
they went, just to be ready for the midday 
fight with tlm “ Pennies.” For the pure joy 


side, and that they had both been nearly 
drowned in the adventure. 

“ Come in, my boys,” was all that he said. 
“ Ye’re a little late, but the roads are heavy 
this morning. Come to the fire and warm 
yir hands before ye begin yir work. It’s a 
fine day for mathematics,” and Mr. McGriiffie 
senior used to tell his son with much relish 
that their hands were warmed. The school 
was pi’ofoundly convinced that if necessary 
Bulldog would be prepared to swim the river 
rather than miss a day in the mathematical 
class-room. 






A LAST RESORT, 


381 


It was a pleasant spring morning, and the 
“marble” season had just began, when 
Ilowieson, after a vicious and well-directed 
stroke which won him three “ brownies,” 
inquired casually whether anybody had seen 
Bulldog go in; for, notwithstanding the 
years which came and went, his passing in 
was always an occasion. Everyone then 
recollected that he had not been seen, but 
no one for a moment suggested that he 
had not arrived ; and even when the school 
trooped into the class-room and found Bull¬ 
dog’s desk empty, there was no exhilara- 
tioii and no tendency to take advantage of 
the circumstances. No one knew where he 
might be lying in wait, and from what 
quarter he might suddenly appear ; and it was 
wonderful with what docility the boys began 
to work under the mild and beneficent reign 
of Mr. Byles, who had not at that time 
joined with the Dowbiggins in the unlawful 
pursuit of game. As tlie forenoon wore on 
there was certainly some curiosity, and 
Nestie was questioned as to Bulldog’s wliere- 
abouts ; but it was understood to be a point 
of honour with Nestie, as a member of his 
household, to give no information about 
Bulldog’s movements, and so the school were 
none the wiser. There was some wild talk 
during the hour, and a dozen stories were 
afloat by afternoon. Next morning it was 
boldly said that Bulldog was ill, and some, 
who did not know what truth was, asserted 
that he was in bed, and challenged Nestie to 
deny the slander. That ingenuous young 
gentleman replied vaguely but politely, and 
veiled the whole situation in such a mist of 
irrelevant detail that the school went in for 
the second day to the class-room rejoicing 
with trembling, and not at all sure whether 
Bulldog might not arrive in a carriage 
and pair, possibly with a large comforter 
round his throat, but otherwise full of 
spirits and perfectly fit for duty. It was 
only after the twelve o’clock break and a 
searching cross-examination of Nestie that 
the school could believe in the goodness 
of Providence, and felt like the Children of 
Israel on the other bank of the Red Sea. 
Some were for celebrating tlieir independence 
in the North Meadow and treating Mr. 
Byles with absolute contempt; but there 
were others who judged Avith some acuteness 
that they could have the North MeadoAV any 
day, ])ub they might never again have a full 
hour in the mathematical class-room without 
Bulldog. There seemed a certain fitness in 
holding the celebration amid the scenes 
of labour and discipline, and the mathe¬ 


matical class Avent in to Avait on Mr. Byles’s 
instruction in high spirits and Avithout one 
missing. It is true that the DoAvbiggins 
shoAved for the first time some reluctance in 
attending to their studies, but it Avas pointed 
out to them in a very firm and persuasive 
Avay by Sparrow that it Avould be disgraceful 
for them to be absent Avhen Bulldog was ill, 
and that the class could not alloAV such an 
act of treachery. SparroAV Avas so full of 
honest feeling that he saAV Thomas John 
safely Avithin the door, and, since he threat¬ 
ened an unreasonable delay, assisted him 
across the threshold from behind. There is 
no perfectly full and accurate account extant 
of Avhat took place betAveen tAA^elve and one 
that day in the mathematical class-room, but 
Avhat may be called contributions to history 
oozed out and Avere gratefully Avelcomed by 
the school. It Avas told Iioay Bauldie, being 
summoned by Mr. Byles to work a problem 
on the board, instead of a triangle dreAV a 
fetching likeness of Mr. Byles himself, and 
being much encouraged by the applause of 
the class, and liaving an artist’s love of his 
Avork, thrust a pipe into Mr. Byles’s mouth 
(pictorially), and blacked one of Mr. Byles’s 
eyes (also pictorially), and then Avent to his 
seat Avith a sense of modest Avorth. That 
Mr. Byles, through a Avant of artistic appre¬ 
ciation, resented this Bohemian likeness of 
himself, and, moved by a Philistine spirit, 
Avould have Aviped it from the board ; but the 
senior members of the class Avould on no 
account alloAV any Avork by a young but 
promising master to be lost, and succeeded 
in the struggle in AAi])ing Mr. Byles’s OAvn face 
Avith the chalky cloth. That Mr. Byles, 
instead of entering into the spirit of the day, 
lost his temper and went to Bulldog’s closet 
for a cane ; Avhereupon Sparrow, seizing the 
opportunity so pleasantly afforded, locked 
Mr. Byles in that place of retirement, and so 
kept him out of any further mischief for the 
rest of the hour. That as Mr. Byles had 
been deposed from office on account of his 
incapacity, and the place of mathematical 
master Avas left vacant, SparroAV Avas un¬ 
animously elected to the position, and gave 
an address, from Bulldog’s desk, replete 
Avith popular humour. That as Thomas John 
did not seem to be giving such attention to 
his studies as might have been expected, 
Spiug ordered that he be brought up for 
punishment, Avhicli Avas promptly done by 
Bauldie and Ilowieson. That after a long 
review of Thomas John’s iniquitous career, 
Spiug gave him the taAvse Avith much 
faithfulness, Bauldie seeing that Thomas 


882 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 



“Wc gathered hopefully round the Russian guns.’ 


John held out his hand in a becoming 
fashion ; then that unhappy yonng gentle¬ 
man was sent to his seat with a warning 
from Sparrow that this must never occur 
again. That IsTestie, having stealthily left 
the room, gave such an accurate imitation of 
Bulldog’s voice in the passagePack of 
little hellers taking advantage of my absence ; 
but I’ll warm them ”—that there Avas an 
instantaneous rush for the seats ; and Avhen 
the door opened and Nestie appeared, the 
mathematical class-room was as quiet as 
pussy, and Spiug was ostentatiously working 
at a mathematical problem. There' are men 
living who look back on that day with 
modest, thankful hearts, hnding in its re¬ 
membrance a solace in old age for the cares 
of life ; and the scene on Avhich they dwell 
most fondly is Nestie, Avhose face had been 
whitened for liis abominable trick, standing 
on the top of Bulldog’s desk, and singing a 


school song with the 
manner of the Count 
and the accent of 
Moossy, Avhile Spiug 
Avith a cane in his 
hand compelled 
DoAvbiggin to join in 
the chorus, and Byles 
could be heard bleat¬ 
ing from the closet. 
Ah, me ! hoAV soon 
we are spoiled by 
this sinful Avorld, and 
lose the SAveet inno¬ 
cence of our first 
years ! how poor are 
the 1‘eAvards of am¬ 
bition compared to 
the simple pleasures 
of childhood ! 

It could not be 
expected that Ave 
should ever have 
another day as good 
again, but everyone 
had a firm confidence 
in the originality of 
Sparrow Avhen it Avas 
a question of mis¬ 
chief. We gathered 
hopefully round the 
Eussian guns next 
morning—for, as I 
have said, the gnns 
Avere our forum and 
place of public 
address—and, while 
affecting an attitude 
of studied indifference, Ave Avaited AAuth 
desire to hear the plan of campaign from 
our leader’s lips. But SparroAV, like all great 
generals, Avas full of surprises, and that 
morning he Avas silent and unapproachable. 
Various suggestions Avere made for brighten¬ 
ing the mathematical labours and cheering 
up Mr. Byles, till at last Howieson, AA'cary of 
their futility, proposed that the Avhole class 
should go up to the top of the North 
Meadow and bathe in the river, and then 
SparroAV broke silence. 

“ Ye may go to bathe if ye like, Jock, and 
Cosh may go Avith ye, and if he’s droAvned 
it’ll be no loss, nor, for that matter, if the 
half of ye are carried doAvn the river. For 
myself, I’m going to the matliematical class, 
and if onybody meddles Avi’ Byles I’ll fight 
him in the back yard in the dinner-bour for 
half a dozen stone-gingers.” 

“Is there onything Avrang Avithyour head. 


A LAST RESORT. 



Q O 
oOfi 


Spilig ? ” For tlie thouglit of Peter busy 
with a triangle under the care and pastoral 
oversight of Mr. Byles could only be 
explained in one way. 

“ No,” replied S])iug savagely, nor with 

my fists, either. The fact is-” And 

then Spilig hesitated, realising amid his many 
excellences a certain deficiency of speech for 
a delicate situation. “ Nestie, what are ye 
glowering at ? Get up on the gun and tell 
them aboot—what ye told me this meenut.” 
And the scliool gathered in amazement 
round our pulpit, on which Nestie stood quite 
unconcerned. 

“ It was very good fun-n yesterday, boys, 
but it won’t do to-t-to-day. Bully’s very ill, 
and Doctor Manley is afraid that he may— 
d-die, and it would 
be beastly bad 
f 0 r 111 - Ill 10 b e 
having larks when 
Bulldog is — inav 
be— ” A 11 d 
Nestie came down 
hurriedly from the 
gun and went be¬ 
hind the crowd, 
while Sparrow 
covered his retreat 
ill an aggressi\'e 
manner, all tlie 
more aggressive 
that he did not 
seem himself to be 
quite indifferent. 

Manley said it. 

Then every boy 
knew it must be 
going hard witli 
Bulldog ; for there 
was not in broad 
Scotland a cleverer, 
pluckier, cheerier 
soul ill liis great 
profession than 
John Manley, Md). 
of Edinburgh, witli 
h a 1 f a doze n 
honours of Scot¬ 
land, England, and 
France. He had 
an insiglit into 
cases that was al¬ 
most supernatural, 
he gave prescri})- 
tions wliicli nobody 
but his own chemist 
could make up, he 
had expedients of 


treatment that never occurred to any otlier 
man, and then he had a way with him that 
used to bring people up from the gates of 
death and fill despairing relatives with hope. 
His arrival in the sick-room, a little man, with 
brusque, sharp, straightforward manner, 
seemed in itself to change the whole face of 
things and beat back the tides of disease. 
He would not hear tliat any disease was 
serious, but he treated it as i^‘ it were ; he 
would not allow a gloomy face in a sick¬ 
room, and his language to women who began 
to whimper, wlien he got them outside the 
room, was such as tom-cats would be ashamed 
of ; and he regarded the idea of any person 
below eighty dying on his hands as a piece of 
incredible impertinence. xAll over Pertlishire 


“ ‘ Dinna kill Bulldog, God ! ’ ” 



384 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


countiy doctors in their hours of anxiety and 
perplexity sent for Manley ; and when two 
men like AVilliam McClure and John Manley 
took a job in hand togetlier, Death might as 
well leave and go to another case, for he 
would not have a look in with those cham¬ 
pions in the doorway. English sportsmen in 
lonely shooting-boxes sent for the Muirtown 
crack in hours of sudden distress, and then 
would go up to London and swear in tlie 
clubs that there was a man down there in a 
country town of Scotland who was cleverer 
than all the West End swell doctors put 
together. He would not allow big names 
of diseases to he used in his hearing, believing 
that the shadow killed more people than the 
reality, and fighting with all his might 
against the melancholy delight that Scots 
people have in serious sickness and other 
dreary dispensations. When Manley returned 
one autumn from a week’s holiday and found 
the people of the North Free Kirk mourning 
in the streets o\'er their minister, because he 
was dying of diphtheria, and his young wife 
asking grace to give her husl)and up if it were 
the will of God, Manley went to the house 
in a whirlwind of indignation, declaring that 
to call a sore throat diphtheria was a tempting 
of Providence, and that it was a mere mercy 
that they hadn’t got the real disease ‘‘just 
for a judgment.” It happened, however, 
that his treatment was exactly the same 
as that for diphtheria, and although he 
declared that he didn’t know whether it was 
necessary for him to come back again for 
such an ordinary case, he did drop in by a 
series of accidents twice a day for more than 
a week ; and although no one dared to whisper 
it in his presence, there are people who think 
to this day that the minister had diphtheria. 
As Manley, however, insisted that it was 
nothing but a sore throat, the minister felt 
bound to get better, and the whole congre¬ 
gation would have thanked Manley in a body 
had it not been that he would ha^'e laughed 
aloud. Many a boy remembered the day 
when he had been ill and sweating with 
terror lest he should die—altliough he 
wouldn’t have said that to any living 
creature—and Mauley had come in like a 
breeze of fresh air, and declared tliat he was 
nothing but a “ skulking young dog,” with 
nothing wrong about him, except the desire 
to escape for three days from Bulldog. 

“ Well, Jimmie, ye don’t deserve it, for 
you’re themost mischievous little rascal,except 
Peter McGufhe, in the whole of Muirtown ; 
but I’ll give you three days in bed, and your 
mother will let you have something nice to 


eat, and then out you go and back to the 
Seminary,” and going out of the door Manley 
would turn round and shake his fist at the 
bed, “just a trick, nothing else.” It might 
be three weeks before the boy was out of 
bed, but he was never afraid again, and had 
some heart to fight his disease. 

Boys are not fools, and the Seminary knew 
that, if Manley had allowed death to be even 
mentioned in connection with Bulldog, 
it was more than likely that they would 
never see the master of the mathematical 
deimrtment again. And boys are a perfect 
absurdity, for—as sure as death—they were 
not glad. Bulldog had thrashed them all, 
or almost all, with faithfulness and per¬ 
severance, and some of them he had thrashed 
many times ; he had never petted any of 
them, and never more than six times, 
perhaps, said a kind word to them. But 
that morning, as they stood, silent, awkward 
and angry, round the guns, there is no doubt 
about it, the Seminary knew that it loved 
Bulldog. Never to see his erect figure and 
stern face come across the North Meadow, 
never to hear him say again from the desk, 
“ Attention to your work, you little fidlers ” ; 
never to Avatch him promenading down 
between the benches, overseeing each boy’s 
task and stimulating the negligent on some 
tender part of their bodies ; iiever to be 
thrashed by him again ! At the thought of 
this calamity each boy felt bad in his clothes, 
and Sparrow, resenting Avhat he judged the 
impertinent spying of Cosh, threatened to 
punch his head, and “learn Cosh to be 
Avatching him.” As everybody knoAvs, boys 
luwe no sentiment and no feeling, so the 
collapse of that morning must be set down 
to pure cussedness ; but tlie school Avas so 
loAv that Byles ruled over them Avithout 
resistance, and might have thrashed them 
if he had so pleased and had not A'entured to 
use Bulldog’s cane. 

Had they not been boys, they Avould have 
called at Bulldog’s to learn how he Avas. 
Being boys, they avoided his name and 
pretended they Avere indifferent; but Avhen 
they met Manley on the bridge that after¬ 
noon, and judged he had come from Bulldog’s, 
they studied his face Avith the skill of Avild 
animals and concluded each one for himself 
that things Avere going badly Avith the 
inaster. They picked up every scrap of 
infoipation from their fathers in the 
evening, although they fiercely resented the 
suggestion of theii* mothers that they would 
be concerned about “ Mr. MacKinnon’s 
illness ”—as if they cared Avhether a master 














THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


aSG 

were ill or well, as if it were not better for 
them that he should be ill, especially such 
ail old brute as Bulldog. And the average 
mother was very much disappointed by 
this lack of feeling, and said to her husband 
at night that she had expected better things 
from ilrchibald ; but if she had gone suddenly 
into Bauldie’s room—for that was his real 
name, Archibald being only the thing given 
in baptism—she would have found that 
truculent worthy sobbing aloud and covering 
his head with the blankets, lest his eldei* 
brother, who slept in the same room, should 
hear him. You have no reason to believe 
me, and his mother would not have believed 
me, but—as sure as death—Bauldie was 
crying because Bulldog was sick unto deatln 

Next morning Spiug and a couple of 
friends happened by the merest accident 
to be loitering at Bailie MacFarlane’s shop 
window, and examining with interest the 
ancient furniture exposed, at the very time 
when that worthy magistrate came out and 
questioned Dr. Manley “ How things were 
going up-bye wi’ the inaister ? ” 

“ Not well. Bailie, not well at all. I don’t 
like tlie case ; it looks bad, very bad indeed, 
and I’m not a croaker. Disease is gone, 
and he’s a strong man, not a stronger in 
Muir town than MacKinnon ; but he has lost 
interest in things, aiid isn’t making an effort 
to get better ; just lying quiet and looking 
at you—says he’s taking a rest, and if we 
don’t get him waked up, I tell you. Bailie, it 
will be a long one.” 

“Michty,” said the Bailie, overcome with 
astonishment at the thought of Bulldog 
dying, as it were, of gentleness. 

‘‘ Yes, yes,” said Manley ; “ but that’s just 
the way with those strong, healthy men, who 
have never known a day’s sickness till they 
are old ; they break up suddenly. And he’ll 
be missed. Bailie, Bulldog didn’t thrash 
you and me, else we would have been better 
men ; but he has attended to our boys.” 

“ He has been verra conscientious,” and 
the Bailie shook his head, sadly mourning 
over a man who had laid down his life in 
discharge of discipline. But the boys de¬ 
parted without remark, and Spiug loosened 
the strap of Bauldie’s books, so that they fell 
in a heap upon the street, whereat there was 
a brisk interchange of ideas, and then the 
company went on its way rejoicing. So 
calious is a boy. 

Nestie was not at school that day, and 
perhaps that was tlie reason that Sparrow 
grew sulky and ill-tempered, taking offence 
if anyone looked at him, and picking quarrels 


in the corridors, and finally disappearing 
during the dinner-hour. It was supposed 
that he had broken bounds and gone to 
Moody Island, that forbidden Pai'adiseof the 
Seminary, and that while the class was 
wasting its time with Byles, Peter was playing 
the Bed Indian. He did not deny the 
charge next day, and took an hour’s deten¬ 
tion in the afternoon with great equanimity, 
but at the time he was supposed to be 
stalking Indians ])ehind the trees, and 
shooting them as they floated down the river 
on a log, he was lying among the hay in his 
father’s stable, hidden from sight, and—as 
sure as death—the Sparrow was trying to 
pray for Bulldog. 

The virtues of Mr. McGuffie senior were 
those of the natural man, and Mr. McGuffie 
junior had never been present at any form 
of family prayers, nor had he attended a 
Sunday-school, nor had he sat under any 
minister in particular. He had had no train¬ 
ing in devotional exercises, although he had 
enjoyed an elaborate education in profanity 
under his father and the grooms, and so his 
form of prayer was entirely his own. 

“God, I dinna ken how to call You, but 
they say Ye hear onybody. I’m Peter 
McGuffie, but mebbe Ye will ken me better by 
Spiug. I’m no a good laddie like Nestie, and 
I’m aye gettin’ the tawse, but I’m awful fond 
of Buildog. Dinna kill Bulldog, God ; dinna 
kill Bulldog ! If Ye let him off this time I’ll 
never say any bad Avords again—as sure as 
death—and I’ll never play truant, and I’ll 
never slap Dowbiggin’s face, and I’ll never 
steal birds’ eggs, and I’ll never set the terrier 
on the cats. I’ll Avasli my face, and—my 
hands, too, and I’ll go to the Sabbath-schule, 
and I’ll do onything Ye ask me if Ye’ll let 
off Bulldog. For ony sake, dinna kill Bull¬ 
dog.” 

When Dr. Manley came out from the 
master’s garden door that evening he 
stumbled upon Spiug, A\'ho AA’as looking very 
miserable, but began to whistle violently the 
moment he Avas detected, and denied that he 
liad come to ask for iieAvs. 

“ Ye did, you young limmer, and you 
needn’t tell me lies, for I know you, SparroAV, 
and your father before you. I Avish I’d good 
news to give you, but I haven’t. I fear 
you’A^e had your last thrashing from Bull¬ 
dog.” 

For a niomenb SparroAV kicked at a stone 
on the road and thrust his liands deep into 
his pockets ; then the corners of his mouth 
began to twitch, and turning round he hid 
his face upon the Avail, Avhilc his tough little 


A LAS7^ RESORT. 


387 


body that had stood many a fight shook all 
over. Doctor Manley was the first person 
that had seen Sparrow cry, and he stood over 
him to protect him from the gaze of any 
wandering message boys who might come 
along the lane. By and by Sparrow began 
to speak between his sobs. 

“ It was a lee, Doctor, for I did come 
lip to ask, blit I didna like to let on. ... I 
heard ye say that ye coiildna rouse Bulldog 
to take an interest in onything, and 1 
thought o’ something.” 

‘‘ What was it, Sparrow ? ” and the doctor 
laid his hands on the boy’s shoulder and 
encouraged him to proceed. “I’ll never tell, 
ye may trust me.” 

“Naething pleased Bulldog sae weel as 
givin’ us a lickin ; if he juist had a cane in 
his hands and a laddie afore him. Bulldog 
would sune be himsel’ again, and—there’s 
no a laddie in schule he’s licked as often as 
me. And I cam up-” and Spiiig stuck. 

“ To offer yourself for a thrashing, you 
mean. You’ve mentioned the medicine; 
’poll my word, I believe it’s just the very 
thing that will do the trick. Confound you. 
Sparrow ! if ye haven’t found out what I was 
seeking after, and I’ve been doctoring those 
Miiirtown sinners for more than thirty years. 
Come along, laddie ; we’ve had our consulta¬ 
tion, and we’ll go to the patient.” And 
Manley hurried Spiiig through the garden 
and into the house. “ Wait a minute here,” 
said the doctor, “ and I’ll come back to 
you.” And in a little while Nestie came 
downstairs and found his friend in the lobby, 
confused and frightened for the first time in 
his life, and Nestie saw the marks of distress 
upon his face. “Doctor M-Manlcy told 
me Spiiig, and ” (putting an arm round his 
neck) “you’re the g-goodest chap in Muir- 
town. It’s awfully d-decent of you, and 
it ’ill p-please Bully tremendous.” And 
then Sparrow went up as consulting phy¬ 
sician to visit Bulldog. Nestie brought liim 
forward to the bedside, and at last he had 
courage to look, and it took him all his time 
to play the man when he saw Bulldog so 
thin, so quiet, so gentle, with his face almost 
as white as the pillow, and his hands upon 
the bedclothes wasted like to the hands of 
a skeleton. The master smiled faintly, and 
seemed to be glad to see the worst of all his 
scholars, Imt he did not say anything. 
Dr. Manley kept in the background and 


allowed the boys to manage their own 
business, being the wisest of men as well as 
the kindliest. Although Nestie made signs 
to Spiug and gave him every encouragement, 
Peter could not find a word, but stood help¬ 
less, biting his lip and looking the very 
picture of abject misery. 

“ Peter has come, sir,” said Nestie, “ to ask 
for you. He is I'ery sorry that you are ill, and 
so are all the boys. Peter thought you might 
be wearying to—to use the c-cane, and 
Peter is wearying, too. Just a little one. 
Bully, to p-please Sparrow,” and Nestie laid 
an old cane he had hunted up, a cane retired 
from service, upon the bed within reach of 
Bulldog’s hand. A twinkle of amusement 
came into the master’s eye, the first expression 
of interest he had shown during his illness. 
He turned his head and looked at Peter, the 
figure of chastened mischief. The remem- 
lirance of the past—the mathematical class¬ 
room, the blackboard with its figures, the 
tricks of the boys, the scratching of the pens, 
came up to him, and his soul was stirred 
within him. His hand closed again upon 
the sceptre of authority, and Peter laid a 
grimy paw open upon the bedclothes. The 
master gave it one little stroke with all the 
strength he had. “ The fidlers,” he said 
softly, “ the little fidlers can’t do ivithout me, 
after all.” A tear gathered in his eye and 
overflowed and rolled down Bulldog’s cheek. 
Manley hurried the boys out of the room, 
who went into the garden, and, being joined 
by the master’s dog, the three together 
played every monkey trick they knew, while 
upstairs in the sick-room Manley declared 
that Bulldog had turned the corner and 
would soon be back again among his “fidlers.” 

The doctor insisted upon driving Peter 
home to his native stable-yard, for this was 
only proper courtesy to a consulting physician. 
He called him “ Doctor ” and “ Sir Peter ” 
and such like names all the ivay, whereat 
Peter was so abashed that friends seeing him 
sitting in Manley’s phaeton, with such an 
expression on his face, spread abi*oad the tale 
that the doctor was bringing him home with 
two broken legs as the result of riding a 
strange horse. The doctor bade him good- 
l)ye in the presence of his father, tipping him 
ten shillings to treat the school on the news 
of Bulldog’s convalescence, and next day 
stone-ginger was flowing like water down the 
throats of the Seminary. 



/iftoonriee on tbe /nboov. 

By George Rankin. 











THE ICE-BREAKER "ERMACK”: 


A SHIP THAT MAY YET NAVIGATE TO 
THE POLE. 


By Earl Mayo." 

I BELIEVE that the future of Arctic and Antarctic 
exploration, including the discovery of the Poles, 
will depend mainly upon the use of powerful ice¬ 
breaking vessels.” 

This opinion was uttered by Vice-iVdmiral IMakaroff, of 
the Kiissian Imperial Navy, as we sat together in the cabin 
of the only vessel of this sort in existence to-day—a shi]) 
that has penetrated already a distance of 200 miles into the 
eternal ice of the iVrctic. Admiral Makaroff spoke as a 
practical man, giving utterance to a statement that be has 
proved by observation and experience. He has done more 
than navigate the Polar ice. For thirty-five years he has 
l)een in active service as an officer of the Russian Na^'y, 
and he has written important scientific books. When such 
a man suggests a new plan of Polar exploration, he is 
likely to have excellent reasons for so doing. I expressed a 
desire to hear the reasons. 

“ It is very simple,” said Admiral Makaroff, who is a 
true Russian as to the patriarchal length of his beard and 
ill his excellent command of English. ‘‘Dr. Nansen proved 
the utility of building a ship strong enough to resist the 
ice, and of permitting it to be carried along by the drifting 
ice current. My suggestion looks merely to the adoption 
of offensive tactics in place of this defensive plan. Instead 
of a ship which can only withstand the ice, I would attack 
the Polar waste with a vessel strong enough to cut her way 
tlirongh any ice in existence.” 

“But is it possible to construct such a ship ? ” 

The Admiral smiled. “ You are now on board such a ship,” he said. “ At least, yon 
are on board a ship that has gone through ice as thick, I believe, as any that lies between 
us and the North Pole. The Ermaclc has cut her way through the thickest ice of the 
Spitzbergen Region, ice that may have been frozen long before you and I were born. She 
is by all odds the strongest ship in existence.” As he said this the Admiral approached a 
small model of the Ermach that stood beneath a glass case at one end of his cabin, and raised 
it by placing his forefingers beneath bow and stern. “ What would you say of a ship that 
could be lifted thus without breaking in the middle ? ” he queried. 

“ Marvellous ! ” 

“ It might be done with the Ermaclc. No other ship could endure such a strain. 
What would you say of propellers that could be brought up short against the most 
formidable obstruction without breaking, although the full power of the engines were urging 
them on ? ” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“It has been done with the Ermaclc. I tell you this simply to show you that the 
ship that would navigate the regions of perpetual cold must be not only strong, but 
symmetrically strong—unbreakable in every part. It is impossible to make a ship too 
strong to deal with the ice. Even the Ermaclc is not so strong as I should wish her 


Copyright, 1900, by the S. S. McClure Co., in the United States of America. 

389 















THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 





A MODEL OF THE “ EKMACK,” SHOWING HEK PECULIAPw LINES AND THE FOIlAVAPvD PPOPELLEU. 
From a photograplt f urnished by the Armstrong Whitiuorth Co. 


to be, altlioiii^^h she can charge any tiling less 
formidable than an iceberg, ahead or astern, 
without injury to herself.”' 

Then the Admiral went on to explain 
point after point and detail after detail of 
this Hercules among sea-going ships. She is 
intended to carry neither cargo nor pas¬ 
sengers nor gims. The single aim of her 
builders was to make her as strong as pos¬ 
sible. Therefore she differs in many respects 
from the ordinary steamship. To begin with, 
she has a double skin throughout, instead of 
merely a double bottom. The epidermis is a 
layer of steel plates an inch and a quarter in 
thickness, extending from the keel to the 
deck level, forty feet above. Within this is 
another steel surface half as thick. The two 
walls are firmly braced by steel supports, and 
the space between them is divided into water¬ 
tight compartments from three to ten feet 
in diameter, extending entirely around the 
vessel. ^ She has a double deck, a double set 
of cabin skyliglits, and an extra wooden par¬ 
tition around the outside of the cabin Avithin 
the second steel skin. The latter provision 
is not so much for safety as for warmth. 
Heat from the ship’s boilers is applied 
through a series of steam pipes that run be- 
tAveen the two inner walls ; and with the 
help of the outer air-chamber to prevent tliis 
heat from escaping, the interior of the 
ErmacHs cabins is kept at a comfortable 


temperature, even in the liighest latitudes 
She is divided by an unusual number of 
Avatertight bulkheads—^forty-eight in all— 
and most of these extend to the deck leA^el. 
After the boilers and machinery Avere all in 
place, these A^arious compartments AA^ere filled 
Avith AA^ater to their full height. Hot only 
did the Avails endure the strain, but the 
Eiinaclc fioated as serenely as before. Ho 
ordinary accident could send her to the 
bottom. 

The provision of so many watertight com¬ 
partments reduces the amount of room in 
the interior of the ship very considerably. 
Of the remaining space, a large part is 
occupied by the propelling machinery, Avhicli 
is located amidships and extends both for- 
Avard and abaft. There are four propellers, 
three located at the stern and one at the 
bow. Thay are connected Avith separate 
engines, in order that any one of them may 
be operated independently, if this is desired. 
Eacli of the engines develops 2,500 horse- 
poAver, so that the total driving strength of 
the ship is 10,000 horse-poAver. The fore 
propeller is an American device, and Avas first 
employed in the ice-breaking A^essels of the 
G-reat Lakes. Its effect in action is to suck 
the AA’ater from beneath the ice, thus greatly 
reducing the resisting poAver of the ice and 
causing it to break more easily. This pro¬ 
peller is useful in another Avay, Avlieii the 














THE ICE-BREAKER ‘‘ERMAOKE 


891 


sliip’s progress is retarded l)y ace.imndations 
of ice below the surface and befoi’c lier bow. 
By reversing the motion of the screw, the 
blocks of ice thus crowded togetlicr are 
driven forward ont of the ship’s path. The 
remainder of the interior is given np to 
cabins, scientific laboratories, the quarters of 
officers and crew, and the bunkers, in which 
are carried 3,000 tons of coal. In spite of 
her great strength, the Ermaclc is not a large 
ship, as we reckon size to-day, and with 
bunkers filled her displacement is only 8,000 
tons. 

In external appearance, as in interior 
arrangement, the Ermack is unusual. Her 
bow, stern, and sides are all cut away sharply. 
Instead of meeting the surface of the water 
at right angles, they project above it. The 
slant of the bow is seventy degrees, of the 
stern sixty-five, and of the sides twenty. 
Consequently the ship looks top-heavy, as 
though sitting entirely on the surface, 
although, as a matter of fact, she draws 
twenty-five feet. She has, too, a blunt look, 
on account of her great beam of seventy-one 


feet, fully twice what it woul 1 be for an 
ocean liner of her length—805 feet. But 
the Ermack was not ])uilt for beanty or for 
speed. In clear water she can make only 
fifteen knots, the pace of a heavy battleship. 
At first glance one would be likely to imagine 
her some new-fangled warship. Her black 
sides and heavy look suggest this. And, in 
fact, though not a naval vessel, she is a 
fighting-ship in the truest sense of the term, 
and her foe is one worthy of any steel that 
can be sent against it. 

How does the Ermack break the ice ? 
Where water freezes to a thickness nearly 
three times the height of a man, its resisting 
strength is enormous. It may be better 
imagined than described. What is the ice¬ 
breaker’s plan of attack when facing an 
opponent of such power ? The natural 
inference of one who knows nothing of the 
subject is that the ship charges the ice 
barrier like a battering-ram ; but this method 
would be as futile as attempting to fell a 
redwood giant with a paper-cutter. In exact 
terms, the Ermack is an ice-crusher. That 



Till-: ‘MCIOIACK ” TAKINO AN AltCTIC ICE-PACK. 

In the foreground is an Arctic lake—a lake not of salt water, Imt of melted ice and snow. 













392 THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


accounts for her peculiar lines. When she 
steams against the ice, her bow does not 
encounter it horizontally—in the line of 
greatest resistance. Instead, it rises upon 
the surface. As the engines urge the ship 
forward, more and more of her weight is 
thrown upon the ice, until it breaks beneath 
the strain. This is not, liowever, a new idea. 
It Avas adopted in an ice-breaker constructed 
by a Eussian, M. Britneff, twenty-five years 
ago, and it is followed to-day in the ice¬ 
breakers on the Eiver Volga, in the North 
Sea, and on the Great Lakes. 

For work amid the ice a ship must possess 
unusual agility. This is imparted to the 
EiinacJc in various ways—by her four power¬ 
ful nickel-steel propellers, Avhich enable her to 
manoeuvre in the narrowest quarters, and by 
a great rolling chamber which occupies tlie 
whole loAver portion of the vessel in the space 
foi’ined by the double bottom. This space is 
divided into four compartments, one occupy¬ 
ing each quarter of the vessel, and each large 
enough to contain the 200 tons of water tliat 
she carries as ballast. A big salvage pump 
located amidships is able to send this entire 
Aveight of Avater from one side to another, 
from fore to aft, or vice versa^ as may be 
necessary. Suppose the ErmacFs boAV to be 
run upon ice thick enough to stand under 
the 900 tons pressure thus imposed : to this, 
within the space of tAA^enty minutes, the 
great pump can add 200 tons more in the 



effort to break doAvn the barrier ; or it can 
send the 200 tons charging to the other end 
of the vessel, in order to get her out of a 
dangerous situation. 

The vessel is equipped for every imaginable 
contingency. Even though her machinery 
AA’ere disabled and she lay helpless in tlie 
grip of the ice, she Avould suffer no serious 
inconvenience. The enormous and steadily 
increasing pressure Avould crumple in tl e 
steel sides of an ordinary ship, or at best 
Avould rack her so that she Avonld certainly 
spring a leak. But the sloping Avails of the 
J.rmack are fifteen times as strong as the 
sides of the ordinary vessel ; moreover, by 
reason of their slope, as the ice presses 
harder and harder upon them, the ship 
simply rises, as does a glass ball if you 
compress it betAveen thumb and finger, until 
at length she rests secure upon the surface 
of the ice. 

NeAA^oastloupon-Tyne, the scene of many 
inventions, from Stephenson’s first, locomotive 
to Parson’s recent TiirUnia^ Avas the birth¬ 
place of the mighty ice-breaker. Here, 
in the great shipbuilding establishment of 
Avhich Lord Armstrong is the head, she 
Avas gradually Avrought out, and when given 
to the Avaves receiA’ed the name of Ennack 
after the Cossack AA^arrior Avho conquered 
Siberia, and Avhose feat she Avas intended to 
repeat in a more peaceful manner by sea. 
For it must not be supposed that the study 
and skill and money that have been expended 
to make the Ennack Avhat she is AA^ere 
intended primarily to aid the cause of Arctic 
exploration. If she succeeds in reaching the 
North Pole, that achievement Avill be merely 
an aside to a career of purely commercial 
usefulness. 

Eussia has the longest coast-line of any 
country in the Avorld. But the greater part of 
this coast lies along the Arctic Ocean, and 
there is only one month in the year when ships 
can have a reasonable assurance of reaching 
the northern ports, a nund)er of Avhich are of 
the first importance. For the other eleven- 
tAvelfths of the year they are closed by the 
ice, Avhich attains a thickness of from eight 
to ten feet, and is sometimes heaped into 
hummocks tAA^enty feet in height. Even iiA 
the Baltic, the port that is the commercial 
gatcAvay to the capital is closed for five 
months of every year by the intense cold. 
It converts the surface of the Gulf of Finland 
and a good portion of the larger sea into 
an expanse of solid ice that sometimes 
extends 200 miles from land. If a ship is 
caught in this ice, it means either a delay 


ADMIKAI. MAKAROKK. 








THE I(U^:-EREAKEU “ERMAi^Kr 


398 



THE “ermACk” MAKINU HER WAY THROUGH A FIELD OF HUMMOCKY ICE IN THE RALTIC. 


tliat destroys her profits for the season, or, 
more probably, her destrnctioii. 

AYhen the Russian Government began to 
give serious attention to the enlargement of 
Russian commerce, it deputed Admiral Llaka- 
roff to make a careful study of the subject 
and plan an ice-ln’eaker capable of opening 
the way to tlie Kara Sea, which receives the 
important Siberian rivers Obi and Yenisei, 
and which is closed by ice during eleven 
montlis of tlie year. Admiral Makaroff, 
in the course of his investigation, visited 
America and went up the Straits of Mac¬ 
kinac, and tliere studied carefully the ice¬ 
breakers that have been in use in the Great 
Lakes for the past twelve years. The Ennack 


is the result of this investigation ; and slie is 
constructed on tlie same general principle as 
the xVmerican ice-breakers. 

The Ermack Avas completed in February of 
last year. She at once set ont for Kron¬ 
stadt at a season Avhen it Avould have been 
ridiculous for auy other boat to attempt to 
approach the frozen Baltic port. The ice 
was encountered at a distance of 160 miles 
from Kronstadt. At first the Ermcick went 
through it readily enough. Her fore pro¬ 
peller sucked the Avater from beneath the ice, 
which broke as soon as her bow began to 
rise upon it, and she Avas able to maintain a 
speed of from four to six knots an hour. 
But as the more shalloAv and fresher portions 

2 E 





























THE WINDSOR MAGAZTNE. 


>^1)4 



A FLEET OF ICE-BOUXD VESSELS BEING CONDFCTEI) INTO KKONSTADT BY THE “ EliMACK. 

The snow, which lay about a font deep on the ice, retarded the progress of the ship more than did the ice itself. 

' The xnclure shows into what fine pieces the '‘Krniack” breaks the ice. 


of tlie Gulf of Finland were approached, the 
task became more difficult. Here the ice, 
being packed to a thickness of several feet, 
offered a very great resistance. The ErmaeJr 
did not fail to break this ice also, hut her 
progress was slow. Sometimes, when slie 
charged the field at full speed, she would 
advance no more than half a length before 
she was brought to a standstill, and tben^ it 
was necessary to go back and charge again. 
In other places the wind had broken the ice 
earlier in the season, and piled it in huge 
windrows, sometimes extending six feet 
above the surface of the water and twenty- 
seven feet below. These ice-banks consisted 
of separate blocks from two to tliree feet 
thick, frozen together into one mass. Against 
them the Ermaclc charged with every engine 
at full pressure. Usually they gave way at 
the first onslaught, and with a tremendous 
crunching and grinding and groaning the 
stout ship ploughed through walls almost as 
high as her own sides, leaving l)ehind her an 
agitated wake of bobbing pieces broken to 
dimensions of a foot or less by her powerful 
screws. 

At Kronstadt it had been rumoured tliat 
a great ship Avas approaching, crushing the 
ice beneath her. But the inhabitants shook 
their heads. Such a thing was unheard of— 
impossible. They had come to look upon 
the ice as an impassable barrier. Keverthe- 
less, one day the smoke from the ErmarpA'^ 


funnels proclaimed undeniably that she was 
approacliing, and the entire population of 
Kronstadt turned out to Avelcome their mid¬ 
winter visitor Avith cheers and jubilation. 
The Ermaclc steamed up to the landing, her 
propellers crushing and crunching the ice. 
She turned to port and then to starboard, 
moved baclvAvarcl as Avell as forward, treading 
out a path for herself in eA’cry direction. 

At that time a number of steamers Avere 
imprisoned in the Baltic, and the Ermaclc 
])roceeded to their rescue. She went first to 
Bevel, and from there conducted thirteen 
ice-bound steamers to port. One of these 
Avas leaking badly at the time of the rescue. 
But her boAV Avas run into the stern of the 
Ermaclc, Avhich is cut away for the special 
purpose of alloAving this to be done, and the 
disaljled vessel Avas thus conducted safely to 
port. Altogether the Ermaclc helped forty- 
one steamers through the ice during the 
brief remainder of the Avinter season. She 
laid saved to commerce already more than 
the cost of her construction, and had demon- 
strated beyond any doubt her commercial 
utility. 

But in the judgment of her commander 
there Avas still another AA'orld for the Ermaclc 
to conquer. She had l)roken ice of one 
season's freezing in the Baltic ; could she 
force her Avay through the ice that had been 
freezing for years in the farther North ? 
This Avas the ])oint that Admiral Makaroff set 



















THE ICE-BREAKER ‘^ERMACKE 


:^>or) 


out to settle Jit the beginning of August, 1899. 
The Ermack^ carried on this occasion a 
number of scientists—a geologist, a botanist, 
and a cliemist—as well as an artist, who was 
to reproduce on canvas, as accurately as 
possible, the glories of the Polar Zone. On 
board was also a photographer with a full 
equipment of kinematograph apparatus, his 
office being to portray the ship in the actual 
operation of breaking her way through the 
heavy ice of the North. The expedition was 
also fully equipped for a scientific study of 
ice in all its forms. 

Although the expedition Avas undertaken, 
not for the purpose of reaching a high lati¬ 
tude, but to test the ship under the severest 
conditions, the story of the voyage, as nar¬ 
rated to me by xidmiral Makaroff, with the 
aid of the ship’s log, is highly interesting. 
The first thing discoA^ered aauxs that the fol- 
Avard screw, Avhich had done such excellent 
service in the Baltic, aauxs a positiA^e hin¬ 
drance Avheii the enormous thickness of the 
Arctic ice AA^as encountered. Accordingly, 
the ice-breaker returned to port and un- 


shijAped this propeller before proceeding on 
her journey. She re-entered the ice to the 
north-Avest of Spitzbergen on August Gth, 
and in eight hours she travelled thirty miles to 
the northward along a zigzag course, through 
ice of constantly increasing tliickness. Then 
she Avas halted for three days, Avhile a minute 
inspection Avas made to learn Avhether she 
had sustained any injury from the encounter. 
It Avas found that her sides had ac(piired a 
brilliant polish from constant contact Avith 
the ice. A feAV bent plates gave evidence of 
the need of local strengthening to resist the 
enormous pressure of the ice-field, but the 
ship had come tlirough the ordeal practically 
unhai'med. Her screws AA-ere now set in 
motion again, and in eleven hours she ad¬ 
vanced thirty miles farther. At this point 
it Avas found that the ice Avas frozen solidly 
to a thickness of fourteen feet. In spite of 
its tremendous resisting power, the Ermack 
Avas still able to make her way forward. The 
progress AA^as very sIoaa^, as it was necessary to 
charge the ice repeatedly before it Avould 
give way. At one time four hours Avere 



THE “ EK.MACK MAKING A CHARGE. 

The shij/.s hum in here raised, hi/ the pressure of the ice, niuefeet above the usual water-liue. 



















896 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


consumed in making an advance of two 
miles. The greatest bar to progress was not 
the depth of the ice, although the strength 
of a solid stratum of fourteen feet is, of 
course, enormous. A greater difficulty ^yas 
the pressure of the moving ice-field, which 
increased with every mile of the advance. 
The Ermaclc stood up staunchly under this 
pressure, but Admiral Makaroff decided tliat 
progress would be easier at a point farther 
east. Accordingly, turning to the south, he 
cut his way slowly out of the encircling field 
and skirted its southern boundary to a point 
near the Seven Islands, where he again 
turned northward. During this part of the 
journey the Ermcick encountered ice-hum- 
mocks piled up by the action of the wind to 
a height of thirty feet or more, but in every 
case they gave way and scattered before her 
charges. 

In the region to which the expedition now 
advanced, it found ice of a different character, 
ill the form of vast floes. Some of these 
floes .were many miles in extent, made up of 
ice of great thickness and lined with hum¬ 
mocks of such height that the look-out 
stationed in the crow’s-nest could hardly 
see over their summits. At the first impact 
the ship’s speed did not slacken perceptibly, 
but it was noticeable that the bow began to 
rise slowly into the air as though she were 
being lifted from below by a giant hand. 
The ice showed no sign of yielding, and the 
ship moved on, going more and more slowly, 
until perhaps nine feet of the glistening 
surface usually below the water-line was 
exposed to view. At length she seemed to 
stand still. Her engines had not ceased 
their efforts ; the screws were whirling at 
their highest speed and churning the water 
at her stern ; but progress had decreased 
until it could hardly be observed by the eye. 
She was pressing upon the ice with a weight 
of 900 tons, and it was still firm. She even 
slipped back a few inches. It seemed as if 
she were going to fail. Then, suddenly, a 
crack which, beginning below the surface, 
had not before revealed itself, appeared in a 
long, irregular line extending from tlie ship’s 
side. Sharp reports like the barking of 
quick-firing guns Avere heard. The Avhole 
field trembled as though moved l)y an earth¬ 
quake shock. A great strip of it, a mile across 
and weighing in the aggregate thousands of 
tons, detached itself from the principal mass 
and moved sloAAdy off. After remaining 
poised motionless for some minutes, the 
Ermack now darted forward sAviftly, like a 


living thing. Giant ice boulders, detached 
by the shock, plunged into the Avater, Avhile 
others rising from great depths sprang into 
the air, looking as green as emeralds and as 
clear. They fell back into the Avater, and 
AA^ere crushed by the flying screAvs as in the 
jaAvs of a monster. Proceeding in tins 
manner, the Ermack made her Avay through 
ice-ridges that sometimes rose to a height of 
eighteen feet above the surface of the A\nter 
and extended to a depth of nine fathoms 
beloAV. 

By this unparalleled achievement the 
Ermack seems to have demonstrated that 
vessels of her kind are an entirely practicable 
means of reaching points in the frozen 
regions that have thus far proved utterly 
unattainable. Of this Admiral Makaroff 
himself is thoroughly convinced. “The 
thing required of a ship for Arctic navi¬ 
gation,” said he, “ is not tremendous engine 
poAver, but the greatest possible strength of 
frame. The Ermack has been strengthened 
once, and noAv she is being strengthened 
again, to make her more effective in this 
direction. The ice of the Baltic or the 
x4merican Lakes offers a greater skin resistance 
than ordinary Arctic ice. What is needed to 
break it is engine power. But neither in the 
Baltic nor elseAvhere below the Arctic Circle 
does one encounter the tremendous local 
pressure imposed upon a vessel by the great 
Polar ice-packs. This is the principal lesson 
of our experiences thus far.” 

In another year it is possible that a com¬ 
panion ship equal in strength to the Ermctck 
may be completed. Then, if Admiral 
Makaroff obtains the consent of the Russian 
Government, he may endeavour to see Iioav 
far north he can go in his ice-breakers. It 
is his opinion that two such vessels could 
Avork together to great advantage in Polar 
exploration. In anticipation of this, the 
stern of the Ermack aa^s shaped especially to 
receive the boAV of another vessel of the same 
kind. By thus joining two together, an 
engine of attack Avould be devised against 
Avhich, it is believed, no conceiA^able thickness 
of ice could stand. 

x4dmiral Makaroff has all the caution of 
the scientific man and all the modesty of the 
sailor. His final Avords as we parted on the 
deck of the Ermack Avere : “ Mind you, I 
do not prophesy that I shall ever reach the 
Poles Avith an ice-breaker. But nothing can 
change my opinion that the future explora¬ 
tion of the Arctic and the Antarctic ought 
to be Avith the aid of ice-breaking ships.” 


PRO PATRIA. 

By max PEMBERTON. 

lUustrated hij A, Forestier. 


BOOK II.—THE PATEIOT. 


SYNOPSIS OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS. 

1 HE story is related by Captain Alfred Hilliard, a young Englishman of considerablp niAnna nn/i i 

position. While on the Continent with his friend Fordham, Hilliard became acquainted with a Colonel^.epeletier 
of Calais, and promptly fell m love with his daughter. But though he had every reason to believe that Au:ne^ 
Lepeletier cared for him, his ofter was positively declined by her father, no reason being assigned At their house 
he met a man whom he had known, when a boy, as Robert Jeffery, but who was known f li 

French household Jeflfen-, alias Martel, had deteriorated with years, and wL now thoroughly untrupnlois He 
invited Hilhard to go vuth him and inspect some excavations, puriiorting to be harbour works and coal boVinn-q 
which were being carried on by the sea-shore near Calais, and which he was superintending. Never for a moment 
suspecting any treachery, Hilliard accompanied him one afternoon to the scene of operations which proved to be a 
tunnel in course of consn^ruction beneath the Strait of Dover. Martel then accused Hilliard of bein- a snv and 
threatened imprisonment. On his calling Hilliard a liar, the Englishman struck him down senLless In the L’nnel 
and escaped himself and ultimately reached England again, only with the greatest difficulty. ’ 


CHAPTER XIY. 

IN AVHICH I HAVE A LETTER FROM THE 
ABBE FORDHAM. 

HAVE heard 
it said by 
one who 
has studied 
the whole 
art of living 
and still 
acc 0 n nts 
himself a 
pupil, that 
of all the 
hours to be 
named for 
excellence 
and the simpler satisfactions of life, the 
breakfast hour in a country house is to be 
surpassed by none. An institution, admittedly 
(for such tradition made it long ago), it is, 
in its way, as sacred as The Times or Punchy 
or any other hallowed necessity of tlie 
English day. Kor do I know any other 
hour in the twenty-four which seems to teach 
so quickly the mere joy of existence, both 
intimate to us and uni\Trsal in the greater 
world of Kature. There is no rose that 
smells as sweet as the first rose we pluck 
wlicn the gong is calling ‘‘ Breakfast.” There 
is no sunshine, no air so invigorating as the 
light and the breeze to whicli we open our 
windows when morning wakes us. The very 


^ * Copyright, 1900, by Max Pemberton, iu the United 
States of America. 


leaves drip then with the dewy draughts of 
life, the air shimmers in the radiating fresh¬ 
ness of the day. A thousand notes of Nature’s 
music are attuned in the woods and gardens 
of the house. The perfume of the blossoms 
rises up as the breath of living flowers. There 
is laughter in the very voices which wake the 
thickets from their sleep. 

At Cottesbrook, my home, I am ever early 
to be abroad and about the purlieus of the 
house, for Nature has a thousand charms of 
these busy hours for me ; and in retreat with 
her it is good to look out upon the press of 
life we have left, the gas-lit arena of the 
heated city, the confines of intrigue and 
pettiness—even, it may be, at tlie follies from 
which we rest and the follies from which we 
flee. In the woods and the gardens, with 
our horses in tlie stables, among our roses on 
the terrace we find a solitude which no other 
path may reach, no other scene make so 
welcome. For every bud we touch is a 
subject of our dominion, every living thing 
that comes out to greet us gladly owns our 
sovereignty. The very stones are full of 
stories the stories, perchance, of those who 
walked as we are walking in the shadow of 
their homes, of those who lived and wrought 
that all this might Ije ours, whose voices are 
still, yet speak to us from every battlement 
and every tower—the voice of the fathers 
whose spirits watch and wait for the sons 
they have left. And to these shall we answer 
in the Judgment, to these who said, “ Serve 
as we have served, in honour and fidelity.” 

^ The morning hour was my hour, indeed, at 
Cottesbrook, and come winter, come summei’. 














T HE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


B98 


the habit of it knew no change. Early from 
my bed, a gallop across the park sent the 
blood singing tlirongh the veins as though a 
man were new-born in energy and health. 
There were dogs to leap to my shoulder, 
horses to whinny when they heard my ste]), 
roses of spring or roses of autumn ready to 
my hand ; above all, my mother’s greeting, 
that dulcet, musical voice whose note shall 
never be forgotten nor rest uncalled-for in my 
memory. 

Whatever the number of our guests, 
friends or strangers, young or old, the day 
was rare when I did not lind myself alone 
for a moment looking upon that beloved 
face or listening to those unforgotten words 
before the less intimate life of day began, 
and all the superficialities must turn us to 
others. Ever, I remember, she would cross 
the lawn to me with my letters in her hand, 
and the love of childhood in her anxious 
eyes, and the sunshine upon her silvered 
hair for glory of her motherhood. No need 
to tell her if I were well or ailing. She read 
me as an open book, A\diose page had been 
blotted by many a tear, whose lines were 
sacred l)ecause the hand of bim she loved 
had written them. And I, in my place, 
could find but one word of morning lor her 
—‘‘ iMother.” She asked no other. 

Many of these golden hours, some of 
sorrow,* but more, aye, many more, of joy, I 
recall as this picture of my home comes back 
to me ; and for a little while I forget why I 
speak of it, and why time may mist it for my 
eyes. Twenty summers could I name where 
no word or deed had come between those 
players of the garden to mute the lip of 
one and to light anxieties in the eyes of the 
other. Yet such a day was known, and to 
it this record now must turn. I had been six 
weeks out of France, six Aveary weeks of doubt 
and waiting, of idle conjecture and childish 
resolution. Every moining my mother Avould 
cross the lawn to me, my letters in her 
trembling hand ; and every day her un¬ 
spoken question was unanswered. “ I was 
unwell ? ” ‘‘ No.” “ There Avas some anxiety 
about Harry ? ” “ Not in the least; the 

Abbe Fordliam Avas still in Switzerland.” 
“ It could not be that money troubled me f ” 
“ Oh, rny dear mother, are we not rich 
enough ? ” “ Then I needed a change— 

my accident must not be forgotten.” I 
promised not to forget it. 1 might even 
join Harry in SAAntzerland, I said—and 
content Avith that avc Avould go into tlm 
house together, my mother and I, hand in 
hand. 


I Avould join Harry in Switzerland ! God 
knows hoAV glad I had been if that Averc 
possible ; but a hand of instinct held me to my 
country as to a duty AA’hich none other might 
fulfil. Six Aveeks had I been in England, 
and six times had those chosen friends who 
heard me laughed at the story AAdiich I came to 
tell. At the War Office in Pall Mall, at the 
commanding officer’s house in Dover, Avith 
my oldest t’riend in the privacy of clubs, 
the same incredulity met me. I had been 
frightened at Escalles, men said, and had 
conjured up the phantom for myself. En¬ 
gineers shook their heads and protested. 
Such a scheme could only be possible Avith 
the consent of our authorities at DoA^er.” 
Generals argued at length that the Intelli¬ 
gence Department Avould knoAV of such a 
plot four-and-tAventy hours after it Avas 
hatched. More practical people asked, 
‘‘Well, Avhy not go to Dover, and see if 
there is any evidence that such a thing is 
possible ? ” I admitted to them that I had been 
and had seen nothing ; and they Avould hear 
no more. Pehind my back I kncAV that 
they pointed the finger and said, “ There 
is the man.” Nor to this hour can I tell 
you Avhy my own conviction remained un¬ 
shaken, nor hoAV it Avas that I said, ‘‘ I 
believe ; time Avill justify me.” Before the 
Avorld I am justified to-day ; but the Avorld 
Avill never knoAV A\liat the justification cost 
me. 

In silence I carried my secret, then, as 
some precious possession Avhich others might 
not share. Harry, it is true, Avrotc to me 
every Aveek a long letter of jest and hope 
and consolation ; but not a word of Agnes 
since he had quitted Calais, exactly a month 
ago. I remember Avell the morning when 
my mother carried to me the note in Avhich 
he told me finally that his mission Avas fruit¬ 
less, and that time alone could consummate 
my Avishes. Frankly,” he had said, “ I 
cannot understand Lepeletier. He has 
changed beyond recognition. There seems 
to liaA'C been a latent hostility to England 
and Englishmen, which has been aroused 
now in his old age, and burns Avith^ an 
ardour Avhich is astounding. I have risen 
to Ciceronian heights, my dear Alfred, but 
in vain. He Avill neither see you nor hear 
of you. There is in his head the per Averse 
notion that you haA'e played Avith his honour 
and have tarnished it. Laughter, argurnent, 
reason—he Avill haA^e none of them, neither 
from myself, nor from a better adAmcate, 
Avhose name is spelled with an A, and whose 
fidelity to a certain young officer of Hussars 


I>IU) PATUIA. 




‘ She would cross tlie lawn to me witli 
letters in lier liand.” 


is beyond reproach. Patience, mou camarade. 
What says the scoundrel Boethius ? ‘ Major 

lex amor est Time alone is our friend. 

AVe will pass Time until he shall please to 
hold out his hand and to tuck away that 
old scythe where it cannot cut ns. I am 
going to Switzerland to-day. But in a 
month I pass through Calais again—and 
tlien ! ’ as the villain says in the melodrama. 
So keep up your heart, old fellow, and forget 
all about your great secret, for I am as sure 
of the wrong-headed ness of it as I am of tlie 
sunshine.” 

I read the letter through and put it away 
in my case, as some deed of my destiny 
wliich, perchance, I might look upon with 
clearer eyes when time had worn it as a 
parchment and all the faded story pi’ovcd but 
a forgotten history. To my mother I said 
nothing, save that Harry was well and in 
Switzerland, and that he sent me poor news . 
of my friends in Calais. If she guessed 


what lay behind, if a woman’s 
intuition made no secret of that 
which 1 would tell to none, my 
love for Agnes Lepeletier, she 
judged in her wisdom not to speak 
of it, but by other means to 
divert the bi’ooding trouble of my 
thoughts. During the month that 
i’ollowcd upon the letter, Cottes- 
brook opened its darkened rooms 
and waked its halls and galleries 
to fresh young voices and all the 
busy idleness of summer. Brother 
oflicers, buoyant with a hope of 
South Africa, friends of Meg, my 
boisterous little sister, relations 
whose chief merit was their chatter, 
anyone who, to use my mother’s 
words, “ was bright,” came to 
Northamptonshire in that month 
of July and helped the picnic 
there. Tennis-parties, the solemn 
pursuit of the golf ball, al fresco 
delights of the woods, masques, 
comedies—the cure was terrifying 
in its magnitude. And it left me 
with my malady untamed. The 
forced inaction, the very attempt 
at self-assurance, the burden of 
the doubt became nigh intolerable, 
ddiere Avere days when I could say 
that I Avonld return to Calais and 
demand an interview of Lepeletier • 
other days Avhen all the story 
Avliich Agnes and I had told seemed 
far off, as a vision of my yontli, 
distant and soon to be absorbed 
in a newer activity of life. And then in 
an hour the truth stood out again as in a 
forbidding image T might not pass. For 
Harry wrote that he Avas coming home again 
and that he had neAA’s for me. The sun 
never shone so bright on Cottesbrook as it 
shone tliat day. 

My mother carried the lettei* through the 
gardens, and, finding me in an arbour by the 
orangery, she sat a moment to Avatch me 
read it and to Avait again, as often she had 
waited vainly for the untold story of my 
secret. Fi’oin the distant house there came 
tlie echo of girlish laughter and the deepei’ 
notes of men’s voices. We sat in a glade of 
tlie old trees and beyond them could look out 
upon the golden corn-lands of my home, and 
all those ripe, green pastures, those sleeping 
AA’oods my father’s feet had trod. I knoAV 
not Avhat it A\’as of the hour or the scene that 
touched some responsive chord of my heart, 
and seemed to release my tongue and to 


my 



400 


THE WIXDSOR MAGAZIXE. 


nerve my voice, so that there, as a child 
which sought the gentler hand, I told my 
mother of Agnes, and spoke of all that I had 
lost and nevermore might win. Alone there, 
she and I, with the distant voices in our ears, 
and the beauty of our home all set about us 
as in a shimmer of tlie golden day, she heard 
me and answered, mother to son, in gladness 
of her knowledge. And from that hour she 
carried my burden with me, in the strong 
arms of Iier love, so that I forgot almost 
that I had ever Avorn it so lieavily or made 
complaint of it. 


nnselfisli gladness for a son’s sake ; and if Ave 
tAvo sat long there in the arbour on that 
sunny morning, make sure that something of 
my mother’s ho])e and joy liad been shared 
by me to lift the looming curtain of my 
future and to giA'e me courage of it. All, 
indeed, 1 might not tell her, but Avho could 
be sure that to-morroAV the right Avould not 
be mine—the right eA^en to return to Calais, 
and to laugh at my phantoms and to say to 
Agnes, “J\Iy mother is waiting for you at 
Cottesbrook ” ? For Harry Avas coming 
home and had iicaa’s for me. He Avould 



“ Alone there, she heard me and answered, mother to son, in gladness of her knowledge.” 


“ You Avill bring her to Cottesbrook ? You 
Avill bring her soon, Alfred ? ” 

“If that may be, mother.” 

“ It shall be ; I Avill pray for it. She Avill 
be Avorthy of my boy. And I shall see her. 
She is very beautiful, Alfred ? ” 

“ There is none beautiful except my 
mother.” 

“ Ah ! you say so, my dearest. But she will 
come to Cottesbrook ; I shall see her soon—• 
this Aveek, this month. She Avill love me, 
Alfred, as I shall love my dear son’s Avife.” 

“ She Avill love you as I, mother.” 

“ I ask nothing more of God than that 
I may see her soon.” 

There is no gladness such as this, the 


be at the station that very afternoon. I 
should see him, hear him, knoAV the best 
and the Avorst. There Avas no lighter-hearted 
man in all Northamptonshire that day than 
he Avho drove to meet the “ Abbe Fordham ” 
upon the road to Harborough. 

For Harry had been in Calais town and 
but yesterday had seen Agnes Lepeletier. 
Thrice happy man AAdio kneAV so little of 
his happiness! 


CHAPTER XY. 

A LESSOX IX DREAMS. 

I MADE out from Harry’s letter that he 
would pass the night in London, and come 






FRO FATE FA. 


401 


on to Market Harborongli by the dismal 
afternoon train from Kettering, which never 
but once was punctual, they say, and then at 
the cost of a station-master’s reason. Im¬ 
patience sent mj liorses at a canter to a 
rendezvous so well desired. It were as thongli 
Harry could bridge in a moment the intoler¬ 
able weeks of waiting I had spent at Cottes- 
brook. With him I might go back to that 
unforgotten day Avlien I leaped from the deck 
of the Hirondelk, and the packet boat 
brought me to Dover Pier. 

A thousand things I must hear from 
Harry’s lips, must ask him a thousand 
questions. Do yon wonder that I paced 
the deserted platform as a prisoner await¬ 
ing liberty ? Would that cursed train 
never be signalled ? Should I never hear 
the message that Agnes had sent ? It was a 
delay intolerable, not to be suffered, beyond 
the malignity even of a railway company. 

He came at last, boisterous, bronzed, the 
laughing, active Harry of old ; and for an 
instant we exchanged a hand-gi’ip as of men 
who meet gladly in some good crisis of their 
lives, but will not speak of it yet awhile. 
For my part, the excitement of that moinent 
sent me hither and thither, now after his 
trunks, now gathering up his rugs, now 
hurrying the grooms, as one all impatient to 
drag him from the press and to have him with 
me in the carriage, where no trunk-hunters 
might hear us, nor gaping rustics listen. 
Yesterday he had seen Agnes, and here at 
Market Harborough could begin to speak of 
other subjects. Well, it was the old Harry, 
after all. 

I captured my prize and took him with me 
to the mail-phaeton, and so to the dusty, 
deserted high-road hy which you come to 
Cottesbrook. He wore a round felt hat now, 
and had tucked his old Scotch cap in the 
pocket of his cape. His face was so scarred 
and bronzed by the suns of Switzerland that 
he might have come from Africa. 

But the old Harry spoke, the old Harry 
who seemed to change the very scene about 
us, to lift the clouds from it and bring the 
light again. 

“ There’s no going home to-night, Harry 
—you dine and sleep at the Abbey. That’s 
decided.” 

tie leant back in the phaeton and clasped 
his hands. 

“ Behold,” he said, “ the parson of Cottes¬ 
brook, who is asked to the loaves and fishes, 
and who disgraces the Cloth by unnatural 
hesitation.” 

“ But Meg wishes it. She won’t forgive me.” 


His face softened as it always did at the 
mention of my sister’s name. 

“ AVho am I, to sav ‘ No ’ to your sister 
Meg, Sir Alfred ? ” 

Agreed. We’ve a full house and a supply 
of bores to people Pretoria. Do you re- 
inernber old Arthur Grosvenor, the little 
General who was recently in command at 
Canterbury ? ” 

“ The man with whiskers and a story of his 
mother’s am it who was carried to a harem at 
Teheran ! Say not that he still lives.” 

“ He does. AAY’ve been treated to the 
excellent lady three times since Sunday. 
AVhat is to be done to a man with one story ?” 

“ Tell him another.” 

“ He doesn’t listen.” 

‘‘ Then present him with a standard work 
on harems and pay his passage to Teheran.” 

‘‘ A good notion ; but I shall have some¬ 
thing else to think of now. Why don’t you 
gratify my curiosity. You know what I am 
thinking of.” 

I did not look at him, but my hand faltered 
on the reins while I Avaited for his answer, 
and the horses swerved badly. 

“ I know Avhat you are thinking of, old 
chap, but I have nothing to tell.” 

“ Nothing to tell—you ? ” 

At least, it’s told in a Avord. Lepeletier 
had closed his house at Calais and gone away.” 

“ Gone away ! Where’s he gone to ? ” 

“ Ah, read me the riddle aright. The 
story in Calais is that he has gone to Chalons. 
I folloAVcd and found it Avas a lie. He has 
never been in Chalons. Vcrhum sap. They 
don’t wish us to knoAv where he is.” 

I was silent for a little AAdiile. - Tlie dusty 
road noAV appeared suddenly to be enveloped 
by the twilight. The friend at my side had 
nothing more to say. 

“ And Agnes,” I exclaimed presently, ‘‘she 
is Avith her father ? ” 

“ The liars of Calais say so. I imagine 
that they tell the truth because it serves as 
Avell as tlie other thing. ObAdonsly, the man 
AA'ho cannot find the father cannot find the 
daughter. They sent me to Chalons on a 
fool’s errand, and Avere indignant because I 
AA^ould not go to Dijon on a second. The 
empty house, moreover, has no secrets. 
There is only a dog in it.” 

I laughed in spite of my chagrin : but he 
began to question me as though to turn my 
thoughts. 

“ Has Agnes Avritten to you since your 
return ? ” 

“ Not a line.” 

“ Her father ? ” 


402 


THE WIHDISOR MAGAZINE. 


‘‘ Absolutely iiobhiiig.” 

“ So ! A silent man and a mystery. 
Well, you cannot argue with a fellow wlio says 
nothing. Did you write to liiin yourself ? ” 

“ A letter as long as a sermon.” 

“ Frank, of course ? ” 

“ Brutally frank. I said that I had seen 
things at Escalles which, he could explain 
with a word. He has not condescended to 
explain them.” 

“Not being at Calais, he might well avoid 
the question. You have forgiven my 
incredulity, I hope ? ” 

“ I never blamed it. I am incredulous 
myself—a man who does not wish to believe 
what his eyes showed him. If anyone 
listened to me, I should be the most 
astonished man in Europe.” 

“ But you have found listeners. You said 
in one letter that you had seen the Yhir Office 
people.” 

“ Quite true. I told them the whole stoiy 
without a jot or tittle of ornament or addi¬ 
tion. They were polite, but impossible. 
The man who showed me out said, ‘ There 
goes a lunatic,’ as plainly as you can say a 
thing without words. Kent, at Dover, the 
colonel in command, laughed like a clown ; 
he insisted on walking to Folkestone with 
me to cure the delusion. We saw nothing, 
of course.” 

“You wouldn’t. I tramped those seven 
miles yesterday and Avas rewarded with two 
tunnels, a coastguard station, old AYatkins’s 
rubbish heap, and a pair of chalky boots.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you are really 
sufficiently interested to walk seven miles ? ” 

I turned to look at him as I asked tlie 
question, and the expression on his face 
astonished me. It had become in an instant 
the face of a man who vTestled with some 
mental trouble. His eyes were Avide open 
and strangely serious. One of his hands 
gripped my forearm in an iron grip. All 
the fascination of my own fear had found 
another victim. 

“Interested, Alfred? Creat God! hoAV 
many nights have I dreamed of it all since 
we parted ! Your woel)egone self by the 
Jardin Richelieu, those minutes in the hotel, 
the morning on the smack ! Do you know 
that I nearly fell in a faint when the steamer 
picked you up ? AVe shall never see a race 
like that again, my son. The Frenchmen 
Avould liaA'e taken you in another hundred 
yards. I began to breathe Avhen I saAV the 
others haul you u]). And I think that I 
began to belieA'e in the same moment.” 

“ AATiy so ? ” 


“Common sense. If there liad been 
nothing to see at Escalles, Avliy did the 
heathen rage furiously because you had seen 
it ? You Avere evidently a prize Avorth catch¬ 
ing. I put tAVO and two together and made 
it four—three Frenchmen in a boat and an 
Englislnnan in the Avater. AATien I returned 
to Calais the police Avere impertinent enough 
to search my luggage, and Lepeletier Avas 
distant. Mademoiselle Agnes, I believe, 
Avent to Paris the next day ; I never saw 
her again. But to the police I said, 

‘ AYe, Robert Arthur Talbot Gascoigne 

Cecil, Alarquess of Salisbury-’ and they 

listened.” 

“ AYhile you Avent on to Switzerland.” 

“ Exactly ; to dream of things I haven’t 
the courage to speak of. Oh, my dear chap, 
just think of it. If the hundredth chance 
Avere true, and those fellows, those burrowing 
animals Avere this A^ery hour creeping, creep- 
i]ig under tlie sea to Dover, Avhile England 
says nothing but ‘ Holidays,’ and you and I 
are driving along a dusty road to Cottes- 
brook 1 I say, ‘ If it Avere true.’ Do you 
knoAV, my son, that I wake in the night as 
cold as a dead man because you have taught 
me how to dream ? ” 

“ As Ave must teach each other hoAV to 
Avake, Harry.” 

“ A thousand times agreed. ShoAV me 
hoAv to break your oavii bonds and I Avill 
begin to live again. Frankly, I cannot burst 
them. No amount of argument convinces 
me that the people of Calais Avoiild have done 
as they did just to punish a man AAdio had 
seen a coal-shaft. AYhat the truth is, God 
knoAVs.” 

“ And Avill help us to discoA^er.” 

For a little AAdiile he sat in silence, as 
though, in truth, he saAV again the thing 
that I had seen a hundred times since I came 
home to Cotteshrook and sought to forget in 
my mother’s house. 

“ AAffiateAmr the truth is, I Avill knoAv it,” 
I said presently, “ even if I spend a half of 
my fortune. Yesterday I resigned my com¬ 
mission in the Eighteenth. I shall spend 
next month at Dover—for the mere satis¬ 
faction of being there.” 

He did not protest, but heard me Avith neAV 
interest. 

“ You Avill need a chaplain, of course ? ” 

“If that chaplain is the \dcar of my 
parish.” 

“ AYell—there are my people-” 

“And there is Meg, Harry.” 

In truth, I heard my sister’s girlish laugh 
as Ave turned into the Abbey drive ; but that 



PRO PATH I A. 


Ht:5 



“ 1 beheld a man’s face starin.f? up at me so savagely, from a bush upon my rii^ht liand. 


and the question I liad put to Harry were 
forgotten an instant later, when, in the very 
thickets about the lawn of the house, I 
beheld a man’s face staring up at me so 


savagely, from a Imsh upon my right hand, 
that I reined the horses hack u])on their 
haunches and sat for a minute unable to say 
a word to anyone. 




404 


THE WIN USD 11 MAGAZINE. 



“ I opened the door of the fly and helped her down to tlie dusty road.” 


“ That fellow there, in the copse—who is 
ne ? where did he come from ? ’’ 

The groom sprang to the ground and 
rushed into the copse, trampling the buslies 
and breaking the boughs. AVhen lie came 
back he shook his head donbtingly. 

‘‘ There’s no one in there, sir. I’ve been 
light through.” 

‘‘But I saw the man for myself.” 

“ Shall I look again, sir ? ” 

“ Let the men come out and search the 
grounds, every yard of them. There was 
someone lurking about there when I spoke. 
He must be found.” 

I let the horses go and drove on to the 
house. Harry asked no questions. I did 
not tell him, until he came into my bedroom 
late that night, that the face I had seen in 
the thicket was the face of one of the 
engineers who passed me in the tunnel at 
Escalles. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

OF PISTOLS AND A PERSIAN. 

My mother was full of anxieties when she 
came down to breakfast next morning, for 


the grooms had been gossiping to the maids, 
and the maids to the men ; and so the story 
of a stranger was sent the round until it came 
to the breakfast-table, and was a fine subject 
for little General Grosvenor, and a terror to 
certain young ladies, Avho expressed a whole¬ 
some fear of an early death if the unknown 
man should be daring enough to walk off with 
the spoons. But t, in Ihe first hour of 
morning, had already quieted my mother’s 
fears, pooh-poohing my own fancies and 
declaring that if anyone lurked yesterday in 
the grounds, lie was but a tramp from Har- 
borough, and to-day would be in the casual 
ward at Kettering. She accepted the story 
reluctantly ; but elsewhere it was a feast for 
our guests, who had divers remedies for 
burglars, and were agreed upon the daring 
courses they would shape if a strange man 
passed the doors of Cottesbrook. To me so 
much, to them so little, the incident meant. 
I seemed to be the unwilling spectator in a 
jest-house, a man full of serious thoughts, 
who, nevertheless, must listen to the boastful 
quips of idlers and all the meaningless chatter 
of a common day. But I knew that one there 
with me shared the burden, and my courage 
had grown since Harry came home. 




FRO FATRIA. 


405 


He was late at the table, and his freckled, 
healthy face lacked somethin,!^ of its colouring, 
of that honest pink and white Avhich bore 
witness to the mens 'sana, and Avas as natural 
to him as the blush to a rose. It was good 
to see my sister Meg’s pretentions indifference 
when Harry said ‘‘ CTOod-morning ” to her, 
for she did not so much as raise her eyes to 
look at him ; and yet I knew that there was 
no man in all England she would so soon have 
welcomed to her side, none I myself would 
liave seen there Avith. greater thankfulness. 
AVhatever else of content that life may give 
us, surely an honest man’s love for the sister 
we haA'e guarded is of gifts most blessed. 
Here Avas a love-story of cliildliood’s birth ; 
it would go on, I said, as some kindly stream 
throngh the fair country of home and children 
to the distant sea of the eternal rest, and, as 
I believed, of the eternal happiness. Hoav 
different from my oavii case ! AVhat future 
could I foresee, if it were not the enduring 
longing for the days I had lived in France ? 
AVhereto Avas the stream of my life carrying 
me, if not to hours of darkness and of the 
mind’s distress ? Six months ago they had 
spoken of me as a man fortunate beyond my 
fellows. I could laugh ironically at such an 
estimate noAv. There is no mistress so per¬ 
verse as Destiny, none so merciless as we iind 
her in the moods of her hostility. 

Harry had exchanged a quick glance Avith 
me Avhen Ave sat at table, and taking up his 
lettei’s, Avhich a groom had carried from the 
Eectory, he asked me to ride over Avith him 
after breakfast. Meg looked np reproachfully 
at the request and AA-iis betrayed into her 
avowal. 

“ Don’t say there’s a funeral, Mr. Ford- 
ham. All Cambridge men tell that old story. 
Alf Avas as bad as the rest. I really thought 
at last Ave ought to bury someone for the sake 
of being honest. Hoav many times did your 
aunt die, Alf, when you Avere at Jesus ? ” 

“ Six or seven, Meg. I Avas like the man 
in the book, and used to keep my grandmother 
for Derby Day. She ahvays died on the eve 
of the great race.” 

“ A common loss in my regiment,” said 
the little General, fixing his eyeglass and 
looking ridiculously fierce. “There is nothing 
neAV under the sun, sir, in religion, in law, 
in medicine, or in the arts of mendacity. 
Here has man been trying for a thousand 
years to fudge up a decent excuse for a 
dereliction of duty, and has got no farther 
than the death of his aunt. Astounding ! 
Lamentable ! Noav, Avhen my poor sister Avas 
persuaded to marry, at the age of forty-nine, 


a rascally Persian in Teheran, they had the 
impertinence to tell me she Avas dead. Dead, 
sir—a Avoman Avho comes of a family Avhich 
liA-es to ninety and has married at sixty-four.” 

Meg Avhispered to me that the Persian was 
properly punished, l)ut Harry Avent on to 
chaff the General. 

“It is astonishing,” he exclaimed, “ hoAV 
little kindness the Avorld sIioaa's to aunts. An 
aunt is ahvays a jocular subject. If a man 
foozles at golf, he does not say, ‘ Oh, my 
cousin, my brother, or my grandfather ! ’ 
He says, ‘ Oh, my aunt! ’ Possibly, General, 
the Persian is equally deficient in the 
]naternal instinct. He did not take your 
aunt seriously- 

“ Oh,” said Meg, “ but he took her to his 
harem, didn’t he. General ? AATisiiT that 
serious enough ? ” 

The little General refused to laugh. 

“She married a Persian, sir, a yelloAV 
felloAV Avho Avore black ti’ousers and a fez. 
AVhen he is tired of her he Avill take three 
more Avives. They are ahvays hanging over 
her head—I have told her so.” 

“ Poor thing ! Is she not very much 
shocked ?” 

“ She is properly punished, young lady. 
The AVest does not touch the East and come 
aAvay Avith clean fingers. Eemember that— 
never marry a Persian. You may be an 
aunt some day, and Avill be more kind to the 
species.” 

“ Horrible thought!” cried Meg, “ to be an 
aunt and to be buried to make a Cambridge 
holiday.” 

Aly mother interposed Avith her more 
serious Avord. 

“ Must you really go to-day, Yicar ? ” she 
said. “ Can’t the parish AA^ait a little 
while ? ” 

Harry turned to me as though in explana¬ 
tion. 

“ Master Alfred rides Avith me,” he 
ansAA’ered quickly. “ A man Avho has left his 
business for five AA'eeks alAAWs protests ruin 
if you suggest tliathe should leave it for six. 
Here is my curate indiscreet enough to go 
and get engaged. If I do not go back and 
release him, he Avill be taking strange texts : 
‘ By the Avaters of Cottesbrook Ave sat doAvn 
and Avept, Avhen Ave remembered thee, 0 
Jane.’ I must really try the A^icarage bed 
to-night. Lady Hilliard-” 

“ iind miss the burglar,” interposed Meg 
audaciously. “Noav, really, do you think there 
Avas a man ? ” 

“ Bosh! ” said the little General con¬ 
temptuously. “An umbrella’s the thing for 




THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


40B 

liiiii, sir. I went through the Ashaiitoe war 
with a cluck suit and a gingliani umbrella, 
and there wasn’t a black who stood up to me. 
Don’t talk to me about pistols-” 

“ Ko one mentioned them, I thiidc,” said 

HaiTY. 

‘‘ But you wore going to, sir-” 

‘‘ I beg your pardoii, nothing of the sort.” 

“ But you had them in your mind, sir.” 

“ Not at all. If I met a burglar, I should 
recite the verses of a minor poet to him, in a 
major key. ‘Silver and gold have I none,’ 
ancl he would pass the plate. In that aspect 
we are men of the same persuasion. I imagine 
his objection to buttons would not be less 
than my own.” 

The little General, who was never so 
happy as in the first words of a heated 
argument, resented Harry’s refusal to oblige 
liiin with a measure of temper, and fell upon 
a dish of strawberries ravenously. It was 
always a “ go-as-you-please ” at Cottesbrook, 
especially at breakfast-time ; and the rest of 
us, fearing, perhaps, that there would be a 
resurrection of the indispensable aunt.; 
strolled off to the stables and the gardens— 
Meg to cut a rose for Harry’s coat, my 
mother to the housekeeper’s room, I to 
the horse-boxes where my hunters stood. 
]\Iy impatience to be away and off with 
Harry prevailed above any interest I could 
affect for everyday affairs. I admitted to 
myself, as a natural thing, that the old 
order of the life at liomewas unstable and 
changing. It could not be otherwise. No 
association, however potent, might recall 
that spirit of a boyhood which was lost to 
me when Agnes Lepeletier met me on the 
Calais road. I was as one Avho realised in 
a single hour the emptiness of life, who 
spanned the years and, looking for the first 
time onward to the eternal goal, conlcl see 
the end and say, “ The way is short.” A 
mood, perchance a passing malady of the 
mind which time and change would cure ; 
but while I suffered it I thought that it 
must endure to the end of my days. 

It was ever Harry’s task to recall me from 
these gloomy paths, to share Avith me those 
bountiful spirits Avdiich neither doubt nor 
difficulty could abate. And he did not fail 
me upon that sunny morning, when we 
mounted our .cobs and cantered away across 
the fields, over hedges and ditches as they 
caoie, to the Vicarage in the hollow and the 
warm welcome Avhich aAvaited us there. 
Meg, it is true, argued at great length with 
him before we set out, upon so private a 
matter that they must needs go into the 


orangery to discuss it; but as soon as we 
Avere by the gates he fell to talk of the 
aff’air of yesterday and of the anxieties it 
had left to him. To me the opportunity 
of saying that AAdiich for many Aveeks I had 
thought in silence Avas as a tonic for the mind. 
The half of my responsibilities, and more, 
seemed, as at Calais, shifted to shoulders 
Avhich could bear them better than my OAvn. 
I knew that a strong man counselled me, a 
strong man and a braAX‘ man, and one to AAdiom 
duty was the first and the last aim of life. 

“ Harry,” I said, AA'hen at last Ave Avere 
alone, “ don’t you think it odd there is no 
neAvs of the man Ave saAV last night ? ” 

“ Odd ? AThy so ? Did you suppose- he 
Avould Avait to ask after the family ? Blessed 
simplicity ! He is in France by this time. 
AVhile your felloAvs Avere beating the bushes, 
I can hear him crying, ‘A has les Anglais !' 
on the other side of the hedge. Eemember, 
he Avas not tAventy paces from the high road. 
And I pay you the compliment of supposing 
that you have forgotten the fable of the 
Avolf. He Avas a flesh-and-blood man, you 
say ? I am ready to believe you.” 

“ Flattering, but unnecessary. I am as 
sure of it as of this old cob. There Avas 
a man in the copse, and I have seen him 
before—at Escalles, Avhen I left Jeffery on 
the line. It remains to ask AAdiat he is 
doing at Cottesbrook and aaIio sent him ? ” 

“ Supererogatory questions, my son. There 
are tAventy reasons. For my part, commend 
me to the less hysterical, but keep a staff in 
my hand. Eeally, I think you Avould do 
Avell to be careful, old felloAv. All this tells 
me, at least, that you have seen something 
at C’alais AA’hich France does not Avish us to 
understand. I think it is your duty to take 
care that a man in a bush does not make 
nnderstanding impossible. Here is a case 
Avhere you must return good for evil, and 
see yon lay it on Avell. I don’t think, if I 
AA’ere you, that I Avould be out on the road 
much after dark. It isn’t good for the 
respiratory organs. AYhat is more, Avhen 
you go to Dover, don’t proclaim it from 
the housetops. You might even suggest— 
a suggpstio falsi, from Avhich I here absolve 
you—that your destination Avas Calais. If 
like cures like, then lies are a hundred times 
justified in this case. In short, I think very 
seriously of the Avhole business.” 

1 kneAV that he did, had knoAvn it at 
Calais, and yesterday at Cottesljrook. It AA^as 
a relief noAV to be able to speak freely and 
Avith none of those rigmaroles Avhich I had 
l)een compelled to employ AA'hen explaining 




I^RO PAT III A. 


407 



myself to others. View it as we might, 
hallucination or truth, the greatest })lot one 
nation ever contrived against anotlier, or tlie 
mere vision of a dreamer, this fact stood 
impregnable—that two men upon a dusty 
Midland road l)elieved that dav in the work 
they were called to do for I'lngland, and 
resolved to do it witii all the intellect which 
Ood had given them. 


“ I am glad you think seriously of it, 
Harry,” I said, when we had gone a little 
way silently. “ After all, if I am telling but 
a fairy tale, why do the people at Calais 
troulde to send a man to S])y me out here ? 
Is not the very fact a. new liidv in the 
chain we make ? Would they trouble their 
heads if I had seen a common fort or a coal- 
shaft ? What the man wants. Heaven 



408 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


knows, unless it is to be sure tluit 1 niu still 
at Cottesbrook and not at Dover, Mind 
YOU, I don’t suppose for a minute that this 
is a question of to-morrow or the day after. 
If a tube be pushed under the Channel, they 
may rest content to leave it half a mile from 
Dover and to wait their own time for the 
final stroke wliich will bring them out upon 
our shores. Looking at the thing from an 
outsider’s point of view, I don’t understand, 
even now, where their chance of opening up 
such a tunnel lies. They cannot suppose 
that we are going to allow Frenchmen to 
begin to dig a hole on the Dover foreshore. 
The thing is not to be considered. If there 
is a clever way of doing it, I am not clever 
enough to nndei-stand it. But I mean to let 
our people know what is going on, and I 
shall not rest until I have the truth.” 

“ You will not rest, and you will not leave 
a good, thick stick at home — excellent 
resolutions. And I agree with you entirely 
as to the air of Dover. A couple of months 
there would do no man any harm. There’s 
golf on the Downs, decent bathing, and 
plenty of fair roads for a stink-pot. You’ll 
get the East Kent foxhounds, too, later on.” 

“ And the best of parsons to preach to me 
on Sundays.” 

Harry shook his head. 

‘‘ Flying visits, my son. Look at the parish 
yonder. It is my kingdom. If I can bring 
a little joy, even to one poor soul there, how 
can I justify myself if I lay down the sceptre ? 
But I’ll come when I can, and I’ll be with 
you always in heart. Amours is the work, 
old friend. We must leave the field of it to 
God. And the cost we must not think of— 
it is a debt we owe to our country. Even 
yet that work may rewai’d us beyond our 
hopes.” 

He put his horse to a canter, as though he 
had no wish to pursue that new phase of the 
subject, and I followed him in consenting 
silence to the village and the Rectory house. 
For I knew that lie spoke of Agnes, of his 
OAvn fruitless embassy, and of the hope he 
had abandoned when he went to Calais town. 
Nevermore, he would have said, must such a 
hope come into my own life or be tlie impulse 
of it. The price of loss was a price to be paid 
without complaint for the honour of my 
country, and, it might be—who could say ?— 
for her very salvation. Nevertheless, from 
all the changing problems of the hour that 
mystery was not to be shut out. Consent as 
I might to the sacrifice, tlie face of the 
woman I loved looked out at me from that 
mirror of the past, and held me, a prisoner 


of the will, before her picture. In vain I 
said that it was ended and forgotten, that 
the glass of the past was shattered, that the 
future had nothing for me of all her store 
of love and content and the harvest of a 
life. Hope uncompiered tempted me still. 
It might be—my right to say that remained 
a precious possession. I would say it though 
all the world forbade. 

I was not born a pessimist, in truth, and 
no pessimist rode away from the Vicarage 
that afternoon, when, leaving Harry at the 
church door, I turned my horse’s head and 
struck upon the high road to Harborough 
and my home. Desire of the future, un¬ 
altered desire born of a woman’s sympathy, 
wei]t with me upon my way, and, wonder 
working always, brought me face to face 
with her I would have gone a thousand miles 
to see—Agnes herself, driving in a carriage 
to the Abbey gates. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AGXES COMES TO COTTESBKOOK. 

Cue greatest surprises are not always of the 
unexpected things, but rather of those Ave 
have looked for but have not dared to be¬ 
lieve in. So often had I, in the idle pleasure 
of imagination, depicted that very scene—niy 
own home and the little French girl driving 
to its gates—that now, when the dream 
came true and imagination was justified of 
the day, I could haA^e laughed aloud for very 
irony of the circumstances. Twenty possi¬ 
bilities of the mystery I Avonld have promised 
at the hazard ; but Agnes, hei*self, in the 
shadoAv of the Abbey—Agnes, herself, going 
to my mother as I had Avished it, aye, count¬ 
less nights since they hunted me from Calais 
toAvn—Avliat book Avould have dared such a 
tin’ll of fortune as tliat ? No tale that I could 
think of surpassed the Avonders of that day. 
81 le was there at the gates of my house ! She 
had come from France to see me—the very 
last messenger I had looked for in a hundred 
years. 

I saw her first at the junction of the 
roads, by the spinney Avhich is the outer 
rampart of the Abbey ; and coming upon 
the carriage suddenly, and observing it care¬ 
lessly, I should have passed it at a trot but 
for a little startled cry and the sound of a 
voice Avhich quickened my heart and sent 
me back in the saddle as thougli a pit yaAvned 
at my A^ery feet. Astonished in his turn, 
tlie flyman (foi* it Avas but a hired fly from 
Kettering) cried “ AVhoa ! ” to his old horse, 



PRO PATRIA. 


400 


wlio needed no reining ; and tliere we safc, 
the three of ns—two travel-stained, weary 
passengers, the third as astonished a man as 
ever rode a patient eol). 

“ Agnes ? It can’t be ! ” 

Slie was very tired ; the dnst liad soiled 
her pretty French dress and powdered tlie 
feathers of her dainty hat, but she raised a 
smiling face to mine and answered me 
bravely. 

“ Is it impossible, then. Captain Alfred ? ” 

“ It is astonishing to the last point of 
wonder. Yon were going to the Abbey, of 
course ? ” 

She answered me as frankly. 

“ Yes, I was going to the Abbey to see 
Lady Hilliard, if I conld.” 

“ The greater surprise ! ” 

“ Lady Hilliard, if I conld ; if not, then 
to ask for yon.” 

I was silent a moment to think of it. 

She had come to see my mother. Why, 

why, why ? There mnst be the gravest 
reason. 

‘‘ Well,” said I, ‘‘ here is a fellow has the 
good or the bad fortune to spoil yonr plans. 
Will yon walk np to the house with me ? 
I will take yon to my mother, Agnes.” 

She did not respond, but obeyed without 
protest when I opened the door of the fly 
and helped her down to the dusty road. 

The man went on to the stables readily. 

He knew the iVbbey kitchens. 

“ Have something to eat and then go 
back,” I said to him, and asked, Yon arc 
from Kettering, are yon not ? ” 

‘‘ I thank you. Captain, from John Cobb’s.” 

“ We shall not want yon again to-day. 
Gro back when your horse is rested. It’s a 
long drive, remember.” 

He assented at once, but his little passenger 
protested. 

“ Oh, no, no, yon do not nnderstand ; my 
friends expect me in London to-night. I 
dare*not disappoint them.” 

“ Then we shall drive yon to the station 
ourselves. It will be something for a couple 
of lazy men to do. Let ns talk about it as 
we go.” 

I drew the reins across my arm and opened 
the spinney gate. There was a bridle-path 
there leading to the orangery and the Italian 
gardens. The cob followed ns as we went np, 
like a dog, patiently, bnt welcoming onr many 
halting-places and the grass he found there. 
For my part, the snr])rise of it all was still 
almost paralysing. I knew not what to say 
or tliink. The hour seemed to carry me back 
magically to Calais and the Jardin Richelieu. 


Agnes had come to me from the ends of the 
earth, I said. 

‘M can’t believe it—can’t believe that it’s 
true,” I cried again and again, as 1 took her 
hand in mine and set ont for the house with 
slow steps. “ There are some days so good 
that they find ns incrednlons. To-day is one 
of them. Is it really you, Agnes, or am I 
dreaming it all ? ” 

She did not withdraw her liand from mine, 
bnt told me all her story, simply and without 
ornament, as was her wont. 

“ I came to yon, Alfred, because I conld 
not trust anyone else to come. AV'hen yon 
left ns in Calais I did not l)elieve that I 
should ever see yon agaiii; bnt a woman’s 
pride is not strong enough to conquer a 
woman’s fear, and so I came. My father is at 
Escalles now, in the works there, bnt I have 
been living in Paris with my Uncle Jnles. A 
week ago one of the engineers, a friend at 
Calais, wrote a letter which brought me to 
London yesterday. I came to warn yon that 
yon have enemies in England. Oh, it is true, 
believe me ; they have never forgiven yon for 
what yon saw that night; they never will. I 
know them so well. They think that yon 
have become the enemy of France, and they 
will not rest until yon are powerless to harm 
them. That is why I am in England to-day, 
to save my father’s honour and yonr life. Yon 
were onr guest, onr friend ; there is so much 
that we owe to yon. Is it not terrible to 
think that one day may change lives unalter¬ 
ably, eternally perhaps, for who can say ? I 
have lost all that I lived for since those old 
days in Calais. I believe, sometimes, that I 
have even lost my faith.” 

I heard her without surprise, for I had 
guessed mncli of this ; and now, drawing her 
closer to me, I answered her gratefully. 

“ Yon will never lose yonr faith, little one. 
Yon are too good for that. If man—who is 
a beast— allows much to a woman’s heart, be 
sure that Providence allows more. Let ns 
think it all over and see if we caniiot find a 
way. As for my friends at Calais, who want 
to see the last of me, well, don’t trouble abont 
them at all. I shall keep my eyes open and 
see nothing but their backs, believe me. The 
really serious thing is yonr father’s distrnst. 
Have yon ever reflected how many troubles 
in life come to ns for the lack of two minutes’ 
plain talk with a man who misunderstands 
ns ? We might go arm in arm with him to 
the end of onr days if we conld bnt say, ‘ It 
was so and so.’ Bnt the opportunity is denied 
ns, and then wlien the man dies we say, 

‘ There is a poor fellow who makes one enemy 

2 F 


410 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


the less in the world.’ Why should that 
opportunity be denied to me in your father’s 
case ? He knows that I entered the forts by 
mistake. He knows that Jeffery took me 
there to pay off an old score. Why shoidd I not 
go to him and say, ‘ It is all a misunderstand¬ 
ing ; you have really nothing to charge 
against me. Let us forget it all and begin 
again ’ ? Hoes not common sense point that 
road ? I’m sure that it does. I feel already 
that we are coming out into the light.” 

She listened patiently while I spoke, and 
then, drawing me back, she stopped to answer 
me, leaving a new picture of lier in my mind, 
a picture set in a frame of silver birches and 
ash and laburnum, carpeted with the rich 
brown loam of summer, breathing an atmo¬ 
sphere of tremulous leaves and woodland 
solitude, and casting up to me a little, white 
face with two dark blue eyes and such a look 
of love and fear and pity, that all my impulse 
was to take her in my arms and say, “ Let us 
blot the page for ever ; let the dead past bury 
its dead ; here in the garden of England let 
us live and rest, as though yesterday had never 
been.” But I knew that she would not hear 
that voice of persuasion which appeals to the 
imagination and not to the reason. Her 
relentless logic had always baffled, nay, some¬ 
times angered me ; for how should such a 
fragile thing remain so obstinate ? 

“ Alfred,” she said sloAvly, as one speaking 
a weighty decree, “ you must not go to my 
father-” 

“ Must not go ? ” 

“ I say it as you have said it. Is there no 
honour, no duty left in the world ? Do you 
owe nothing to your country ? ” 

I was silent as one who had been struck a 
blow upon the mouth. 

A great gulf seemed to open between us as 
we stood. Her face, so near to mine an 
instant ago, was now as a face afar off. 
AVhat had she said ? what had she told me ? 

“ No,” she continued quietly, “ you must 
not see my father, and I must see you no 
more. If honour keeps you in England, it 
sends me to France to-morrow. Oh, tliink, 
think, what children of circumstance we are 
—wishing so much, hoping so much, meeting 
a few short mouths ago when Ave might so 
easily have passed eacli other by, that we 
come to this, to choose between those Ave love 
and those we serve, our aff’cctious or our 
countries. I try to tell myself that it is not 
so, I)ut I knoAv that the truth must be. The 
light that is coming into your life Avill be 
darkness for me—it is AA'ritten so, a avo man’s 
tears Avill never Avash out a page of Fate, for 


Fate has no heart. Let us accept it as those 
Avho love ; let us at least be true to our¬ 
selves.” 

“ And, being true, shall Ave say that an 
accident costing your country nothing, and 
of no concern to mine, is to merit this great 
penalty ? ” 

She turned questioning eyes upon me. I 
am sure that she read the Avords in all their 
deeper meaning. 

‘‘AYould you tempt my honour ? ” she asked 
almost in anger. “ Are not my lips sealed. 
If there is a debt for you, is there not one for 
me also ? You knoAv that there is, you knoAV 
that you have no right to question me.” 

I flinched at the AA'ords, for every one of 
them AA'as a neAv light, a neAV meaning upon 
her confession. The AA’oman I loved AA'as 
ignorant no longer. I did not dare to ask 
hoAv far her knoAAdedge Avent. 

“ I am Avrong to ask, Agnes,” Avas my 
response. “ I Avill ncA’er askyou again. But 
I Avould give half the years of my life not to 
have heard the things you tell me.” 

‘‘ As I Avould give all my life if another 
could bear my fatlier’s burdens.” 

‘‘At least you tell me that it is no choice 
of his.” 

“ A choice and yet no choice. He Avasnot 
consulted, all Avas not told him. I ask 
nothing for his sake. At Calais I did not 
knoAv, or I would have asked nothing then. 
Hoav can he love the Fnglish, aa'Iio killed his 
brother in Canada ? He Avill hate the nation 
alAvays, but not the man. Once I think you 
made liim forget — it Avas at Pan, Avhen AA'e 
AA’ere happy together. But happiness is a 
taskmaster, ahvays asking payment of the 
memory. AYe tell ourselves so often that Ave 
Avere happy ten years ago. It is all ^ of the 
past. Each day Ave live to mourn yesterday.” 

“ AYe may live for to-morroAv, too—you 
cannot forbid me do that, Agnes. EA'en yet, 
out of the unknoAvii Ave may ffnd a friend. 
AA^ill not you take that thought back to 
France Avith you ? ” 

She Avas silent a little Avhile ; I saAA^ the 
tears glistening in her pretty eyes ; but her 
courage Avas unchanged. 

“ It AA'ould be madness,” she said, “ mad¬ 
ness to deceHc ourselves. I shall return to 
France to-morroAA' : you Avill forget in your 
home. One could be content in such a home 
as this, I think. England seems to me to be 
one great garden. You liaA'e no horizons, 
no distances, but you have the ffoAA'ers, and 
the trees, and the hedges. It is so difficult 
for a stranger to believe that England is not 
a little country. There is nothing in the 



PRO PATRIA. 


-Ul 



•• 'I'hosc dear to me were heart to heart in the love which is not born of knowledge or of the years.” 


world like an Eno’lish cottage. T know that 
France is veiy beantifnl. I love my own 
land : bnt if I were an Englishwoman I 
slionld say that Fi’ance lias not the beauty 


I have seen in my journey to-day, I have 
thought of nothing else all the" way from 
London. Yon will be happv in England, 
Alfred.” 







412 


THE WlXDSOli MAGAZINE. 


“ As happy as you will l)e in France, 
mignomie. Why should we talk of the 
liopeless things ? Cannot we begin again 
from the beginning, honestly, without 
disguise ? cannot we give all onr hearts and 
minds to the endeavour ? and if we do, who 
will say that we may not succeed ? I shall 
believe, in spite of yon ; I am believing even 
now, when all this is as unreal to me as any 
scene upon the stage. Do yon wonder if I 
ask if yon really are at Cobtesbrook ? Oh, 1 
mean to laugh at difficulties. Is a man to 
love the less because of fate and circum¬ 
stances ? There is no power that can make 
him do so, no philosophy or creed which 
preaches that. I shall count every day as 
one day nearer my goal. Yon are powerless 
to prevent me : yon would not wish to pre¬ 
vent me. Yonder is my mother’s house, 
Agnes. Some day yon will be its mistress. 

1 am as sure of it as of the sunshine which is 
upon ns now. Let ns go up there and see. 
if my mother cannot find a better argument. 
We are but children, after all.” 

She would have refused me, but we had 
emerged from the spinney now ; and all the 
gardens of the house, glorious at the zenith 
of the summer, were unrolled before her 
wondering eyes. Never have I known such 
a pride of home as came to me in that hour, 
when, pointing to the chapel and the towers, 
and the Avindows of the Abbey flashing 
crimson in the golden beams, I took Agnes 
by the hand and led her across the deserted 
lawn. For I had espied my mother, seated 
in the arbour by the orangery, and almost 
dragging my little girl after me I Avent up 
to the arbour and said ‘‘ Mother,” and rising 
she came out to us, and those dear to me 
Avere heart to heart in the loA^e Avhich is not 
of knoAvledge or of the years, but inborn and 
foreordained, the love surpassing under¬ 
standing. 

And so Agnes came to Cottesbrook, and 
she, Avho had met me bravely, sank into my 
mother’s arms, AA'eeping. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

I THINK OF DOVER AGAIN. 

There is a train at 5.45 from jMarket 
Harborough to St. Pancras, and by this 
Agnes Avould return to town, despite my 
mother’s earnest entreaties and my oavii 
protests. Her people there, she said, Avere 
expecting her, and Avould meet lier at the 
station. T kneAV that one of her uncles Avas 
at the French Embassy in town, and could 


And no argument to gainsay her. She had 
kept both her destination and the purpose of 
her visit from these friends, and to delay 
Avould be to defeat her own desires. And so 
it befell that, as she had come, from an 
unknoAvn place unexpectedly, a AA^onder figure 
upon the dusty road to Cottesbrook, so Avould 
she go again from my country. She had 
carried her message from France, and to 
France Avould she return. A thousand 
arguments could not shake that unchange¬ 
able resolution. 

“ At least you Avill Avrite to me ? prudence 
cannot forbid that,” I protested, as Ave drove 
to the station in my own phaeton. “ There 
can be no possible reason Avhy you should 
not AATite.” 

She answered me evasively. 

“ Are letters so precious, then ? Does any 
one Avrite a letter except from selfish inotiA^es ? 
We tell all the untruths aa'c can think of, 
and then sign ourselves, ‘ Yours truly.’ 
Only very clever people Avrite great letters, 
Alfred.” 

“ Tliat is so ; but ordinary people may 
read the great letters. At least let me have 
the opportunity. The paper from you 
AAffiich says, ‘ I remember, I am Avell,’ Avill 
not find me incredulous. HaA^e I not 
deserved as much ? ” 

She thought upon it a little Avhile, as one 
troubled, and then she said— 

“ I am not clever, Alfred. What could I 
say to you except that which I have already 
said ? You have enemies in England. At 
least you OAve me the compliment of acting 
prudently.” 

“ I Avill go with the circumspection of a 
judge to his sherry. If I cannot belicA'e 
much in these enemies, I am none the less 
grateful to you. Look at it seriously, Agnes. 
You cannot tell me that the French Govern¬ 
ment would deliberately plot against my 
life ! They have been frightening you— 
your friends at Calais. If anyone Avere 
sent over here, it is just to see Avhat I am 
doing. The felloAv has gone back again by 
this time, to say that I have settled d oavii to 
squiredom ; the others Avill all give thanks 
and forget all about me. We shall forget all 
about them in our turn and let them go on 
Avith their Avork.” 

I put it so meaningly, for I had a gi’eat 
desire noAv to prove her knoAvledge ; but her 
ansAver told me nothing. It was possible to 
believe, after all, that I had misjudged her. 

“ They Avill never forget,” she said quietly. 
“ Sadi Martel Avill compel them to remember.” 

“You believe that he is the man, then ? ” 



PRO PATRJA. 


‘‘ I am sure of it: he almost told me so 
ill Paris last week. A woman can learn anj- 
thing from a man Avbo professes to love her. 
Do you blame me if I have used my oppor¬ 
tunities ? ” 

“ I don’t blame you at all; but I should 
like to hear that there were no opportunities. 
The fellow has been persecuting you. You 
admit that ? ” 

My chagrin amused her. She smiled for 
the hrst time that day, I think. 

“ Persecutions are flattering for women— 
sometimes. Sadi Martel is very amusing. 
And, of course, he is clever.” 

“ They are all clever. It is the last 
apology a woman makes for a brute. You 
can say as much for most scoundrels. Are 
you bound to see this Martel ? ” 

“ Until his work is done.” 

“ His work against my country.” 

“ And for mine.” 

‘‘ Dishonourable work, none the less. That 
is why I find fault with your father. He is 
a soldier and gentleman. AVhy does he 
stoop to the level of such a rogue as Martel ? 
Why does he not remember the traditions 
of the French Army, and not seek other, newer 
traditions less honourable ? That is the crux 
of the whole difficulty—not his hostility, 
but the method of it. I quarrel with that, 
Agnes ; it is that I will do my best to defeat. 
God made him a Frenchman. He made me 
an Englishman ; there is no logic Avhich 
forbids us to be friends unless it is the logic 
of dishonour. Why nation hates nation 
may be a thesis for the philosophers ; it is 
not for us. Tell me that Colonel Lepeletier 
is doing his duty as a French officer, and I 
will never complain against him. But show 
me a fine old soldier dragged at the heels of 
a drunken engineer to a crafty and despicable 
plot against my own country, and I will 
never rest until I have exposed and defeated it. 
That is all my story, all that I would have 
you say in France of me. Am I wrong to 
believe that you will tell it sympathetically?” 

I had spoken very frankly to her, deeming 
the moment opportune ; and she heard me 
with serious eyes and a little tremor of the lips 
which betrayed her deeper thoughts. Odd, 
indeed, that a few weeks could so change that 
impulsive, laughing nature and show me in 
its place one grown old in wisdom suddenly, 
a woman and yet a child. Nevertheless, I 
confess, there was no prettier thing in all the 
world than Agnes serious, Agnes the wise- 
head, Agnes the matron of counsel and 
prudence. And I knew now that the secret 
had been kept from her. 


41 

“ I sliall speak synipatlietically always, 
even thougli I may not understand,” she 
said quietly. “ My father’s work at Escalles is 
no dishonour. It is because another is our 
frieiid that you and I must speak like this 
to-night. Sometimes I think that he has the 
power to ruin my father and would use it if 
he could. His secret against your country is 
his own—it may bo yours, too. I will not 
ask. I know that you will do your duty, 
Alfred, as I know that Ave shall never meet 
again.” 

A Avord of iil-omen indeed, yet one she 
reiterated as Ave drove on to tlie station, and 
the moment of separation Avas at hand. Nor 
could I answer it as I AA’ould have Avished. 
The greater truth Aveiglied upon me and 
seemed to forbid that closer understanding 
AAdiich fate denied to us for so many fateful 
days. She kneAV, I said, and yet she did not. 
Her clever little liead could argue as I had 
argued upon the hidden Avorksat Escalles and 
those Avho laboured therein. Some great secret 
she understood of it, but tlie nature of that 
secret had been hidden from her. And over 
all was the sense of destiny, that birthright 
of ours, Avhich asked of her loA'e for France, 
as it asked of me love for England. AVho 
shall Avonder if all the logic of our careless 
lives could not Avrestle Avith. a problem so 
complex ? But yesterday she Avas a little 
girl in short skirts, counting her tennis 
balls and complaining bitterly that her 
bicycle Avas broken. What irony asked of 
her this courage of foreboding, tliis brave 
surrender to the sacrifice her love denianded ? 
For she aaus schooled to sacrifice iioav. Slie 
said “ Good-bye ” to me as one who kneAA^ 
that this Avas the end. 

Harry Avas in the billiard-room Avlien I 
returned to the Abbey, and he followed me 
to my OAvn den to hear the neAvs. Excited as 
I Avas by the surprises of the day, I could yet 
tell him a colierent story and explain a reso¬ 
lution to AA’hich I had come as I drove my 
horses furiously upon the station road. 1 
would go to Dover. The quiet of my home 
Avas not good for me. Delusion or no 
delusion, the victim of hallucination or of 
truth, I must find Avork to do. 

“ Harry,” I said, “ you must concoct a 
story for my mother. I am going to Dover 
to-morroAV.” 

“Nice AA’ork for the Church, my son. 
The parson lying for the parish. Instruct 
him in the art, and he will do his best. Is 
there no story of your regiment that Avill 
serve ? ” 

“ My colonel refuses to accept my papers. 


414 THE WINDSOll MAGAZINE. 


He says I am to get well. A regimental 
order. I will ol^ey it at Dover, perhaps.” 

“ An idea, ’fore Gad. You go to Dover to 
study fortifications. AVell, I "think my con¬ 
science permits. After all, it might be a 
great work, or something to laugh at. Pray 
God the latter. And, seriously, you don’t 
look well. I am a stranger and I see it. 
They never see these things in families. 
You tell a man that his sister is in consump¬ 
tion, and he says, ‘ Oh, is she ? ’ He would 
much sooner have a tip for a race.” 

Agreed; luit I shall not suffer any 
anxieties on my sister Meg’s account. Let 
them age you, my dear Harry.” 

“ I think I can support them. Meg’s 
present ailments are backhanders and an 
objectionable habit of placing the ball where 
I cannot reach it. I shall try to run down, if 
only for four-and-twenty hours, in a Aveek or 
two’s time. MeaiiAvhile, don’t forget the 
man in the drive. Mademoiselle cautioned 
you ? I hope you will remember it.” 

‘‘ I shall remember nothing so childish. 
At Dover I mean to learn finally and for all 
time if there is the smallest chance in the world 
of the French striking through, unknown to 
us, Avith a tunnel to our coast. If there is, I 


don’t care Avhether one man or five liundred 
promenade this drive. Fools laugh at my 
story—if they laugh to the end, no one Avill 
be better pleased than I. But I am going to 
prove it, Harry, if it costs me my life and 
my future. Acquit me of the boast, for you 
understand my meaning.” 

“ There can be no boast in the matter. 
Hoav should there be ? Y’ou believe a remote 
possibility. That is enough. If I could 
help, I Avould cast off every tie in the Avorld 
to go Avith you. But I am only an old 
parson, and you, my dear felloAV, you, Avith 
your serious views of life and your sometimes 
wild notions of duty, you are the very man I 
Avould send to the Avork. Go, and God bless 
you ! I hope and pray that it is a child’s 
errand. If it should be otherAvise, the day 
may yet come Avhen England Avill remember 
the name of Alfred Hilliard.” 

And so it befell, for the hour Avas already 
late ; and Avith no more talk upon it 
all I said ‘‘ Good-bye ” to him. Yor did I 
foresee, as I Aventup to my bedroom, even the 
least of those terrible days I must live through 
before I might hear the voice of Harry 
Fordham again. Gladly in the hope of truth 
I set out—to the unknown and the peril of it. 


{To he (vnUniied.) 



“She said ‘Good-bye’ to me as one who kuew that this was the end.'’ 














CADMCrfSnOLIDAY 

after 5niPIiA 

LQUISL CMMDLER nOULTOiS 

tvdRy ONE KEPT HOLlDAy EXCEPT T HE PE AD^ VEi^ST5ctmOiN 


Who dares to say the dead men were not glad, 
When all the banners flaunted triumph there 
And soldiers tossed their caps into the air, 
And cheered, and cheered as they with joy were mad ? 


Proudly the General galloped down the line. 

And shouted thanks and praise to all his men. 
And the free echoes tossed it back again, 

And the keen air stung all their lips like wine. 



And there, in front, the dead lay silently- 

They who had given their lives the fight to win— 
Were their ears deaf, think you, to all the din. 

And their eyes blinded that they could not see? 


I tell you, no! They heard, and hearing knew 
How brief a thing this triumph of a day. 

From which men journey on, the same old way. 
The same old snares and pitfalls struggle through. 

Theirs the true triumph, for their fight was done; 

And with low laughter called they, each to each— 
We are at rest, where foemen cannot reach. 

And better this than lighting in the sun.'' 


(By permission of Messrs. Macmillan and Company.') 





























butterflies. 

By Spenc?:r Pry.se, 



THE YEOMEN OF THE GUARD. 

By George A. Wade. 


T here are few Englishmen who, Avere 
they asked which is the oldest body 
of soldiers now existing in the armies 
of the civilised world, could give a satisfactory 
reply. Yet the corps that may be so desig¬ 
nated is in onr own land, and is well-known, 
by name at all events, to most people, who 
may be surprised to learn that the proud dis¬ 
tinction of being able to claim that honour 
belongs to the “ Yeomen of the Guard.” 

They are men with a history, and an 
interesting one in every sense, these sturdy 


There are to-day one Imndred of these 
gallant fellows doing duty in some capacity 
in the famous corps of the Royal bodyguard 
known as the “ Yeomen of the Guard.” 
There was not always this numljer, for there 
has been much variation since the founding 
of the “regiment.” At first it numbered 
tifty men, forty of whom are mentioned in 
tlie State records in the original warrants. 
This was under Henry YTL By Henry YIII.’s 
time it had risen to six liundred, so that it 
is not witliont reason that we speak of it as a 



Photo by'] 


A GROUP OF YKOMFX OF THE GUARD, ST. JAMES’S PALACE. 


[Ball, liegent Street, \V. 


veterans whom one sees on duty at Bucking¬ 
ham Palace or St. James’s, whenever Royalty 
holds a Drawing Room or a Levee, or when 
some State ball or concert takes place. Most 
of them have seen stirring times and deeds 
on the field of battle, about wliich they could 
tell many tales, for no retired soldiers can be 
admitted into the privileged ranks of the 
“Yeomen of the Guard” at all unless they 
“have held commissioned, warrant, or 
sergeant’s rank in the Army, and have also 
been decorated for seiA ice in the field,” 


“ regiment.” Edward YI. had two hundred 
Yeomen, whilst Mary, his sister, thought four 
hundred none too many. James I. reduced 
the number again to two hundred, and 
Charles II. at tlie Restoration made it one 
hundred, at which figure it has remained 
ever since. During the times of the Tudors 
it also contained some mounted men, as seen 
from the accompanying photograph of an 
engraving, but these afterwards disappeared. 

There can be little doubt that the first 
constitution of the King’s bodyguard was in 




THE WINDSOR MAOAZINE. 


418 



AX KAULY YKOMAX OK TllK OrAUD. 
From an old jodnl. 


1485 , when Henry YU., fresh from his great 
\'icbory at Bos worth, appointed several of his 
most trusted men to act permanently as his 
special guard, under the title and style of 
“The Yeomen of the King’s Guard.” This 
title was almost immediately shortened by 
the populace into the familiar one we know 
to-day, which has practically never changed. 
And it is curious and interesting to learn 
from documents now in possession of the 
corps that these lirst Yeomen Avere mostly 
Welshmen, such names as Ap Jones, Kaye, 
Griffiths, etc., being the most frequent. 
This fact is doubtless due to tlie circumstance 
that Welshmen formed the chief part of the 
King’s retinue in his exile, and flocked so 
largely to his standard on his landing at 
Milford Haven. An interesting portrait of 
an early Yeoman of the Guard is here 
reproduced. 

It has been suggested by some authorities 
that Canute had, live hundred years before 
that date, possessed a similar body of soldiers 
to guard his person, and that this regiment 
was continued by later kings, under different 
titles, until under Edward III. it became 
the “Yeomen of the Crown.” But this 
suggestion does not prove that this regiment 
became ultimately the one Ave know at present, 
for in fact these separate bodyguards of the 
sovereigns remained in existence until the 


eighteentli century. They have often been 
confused Avith the “Yeomen of the Guard,” 
Imt they Avere not milihiry bodies at all, and at 
tlie death of each monarch under whom they 
served they were disbanded, and a neAV guard, 
often of totally fresh men and Avith different 
dress and accoutrements, was formed. The 
history of these various bodyguards Avould 
form a volume in itself. 

Kothing to-day about the Yeomen of the 
Guard is more striking and picturesque than 
their media3val dress, Avliich is ever such a 
Avonder and pleasure to the country cousin 
who first sees it at the ToAA’er of London. 
And it has altered \'ery little, comparatively 
speaking, from that of the period when it Avas 
first appointed for them. 

The costume is extremely interesting, Avith 
its bright scarlet tunic bearing the Tudor 
rose, embroidered in crimson and gold beneath 
the Boyal Crown ; the Avhite ruffles at the 
neck—sure evidence of Good Queen Bess— 
the scarlet, close-fitting hose, and the flat- 
topped black velvet hat, Avith its Avide 
brim. All through the centuries the Boyal 
scarlet, the gold lace, and the velvet have 
remained constant in this arrangement. 
AYliat alterations luiAn taken place have been 
chiefly in the shape and style of • the sleeves 
and cap. SeA^eral prints still in existence 



A MOUNTED YEOMAN, 
From an old jirinl. 





THH YEOMEN OE THE GUARD. 


410 


show that the Yeomen used to wear fuller 
sleeves, and that occasionally the skirts of the 
tunics have been either longer or shorter. 
Elizabeth, it is almost needless to remark, 
added the ruhles, now so conspicuous in 
the costume. The hats were, in the Stuart 
days, changed from the low, round hat, 
now so familiar, to higher headgear, adorned 
with plumes, and lace took the place of the 
ruff. But the Hanoverian dynasty did away 
with these innovations and restored the 
former cap and ruft* to their old places. 

The duties of the Yeomen of the Guard, as 
originally defined by warrant, were to protect 
the" person of the Sovereign on State occasions 
and in private ; to form part of the Iloyal 
train in order to increase its splendour ; 
and to fight for and with their monarch 
in battle." Henry YII. was not long in 
bringing his favourites into useful work, for 
the newly-formed bodyguard took a promi¬ 
nent part in the processioji to St. Paul’s 
which the King organised in order to give 
thanks for the victory at Bos.worth ; and 
within a month it was again inucb. in evidence 
at his coronation in YTstminster Abbey. 
Heniy YIII. took six hundred of the 
YYomeji with him to the Field of the Cloth 
of Gold, as his special guard ; and the 
Yeomen were also present with AVilliam III. 
at the battle of the Boyne, two centuries ago. 

It was Elizabeth who used to have the 
Yeomen waiting at table during her grandest 
feasts, and it is doubtless from this that the 
Yeomen of the Guard became looked upon 
as being the proper persons to perforni Court 
duties at State functions, which are their 
principal services to-day. 

The conditions which are recpiisite for a 
Yeoman have been already stated— viz., 
certain rank and past services in the Kegular 
Army, and an unblemished character for at 
least eighteen years previous to his application 
for appointment. Hence the reason why 
the famous hundred veterans are regarded 
with such pride by the whole English Army, 
for they are the representatives of all that 
is best and bravest amongst the various arms 
of the Service. 

As to the constitution of the celebrated 
hundred, it is as follows. At the head of the 
corps is a captain, who is the sole person in 
the Guard who is not compelled to have seen 
active military service. His office is generally 
political, as a new captain is appointed with 
each change of Government. The captain 
must, according to all recent precedent, be a 

Peer of the Realm,” and the present holdei' 
of the post IS Earl Waldegrave, who is 



Photo by'] 


Regent Street, M’. 


A TYriCAL YEOMAN OE THE GUARD: MR. ALFRED 
WHITE, FORMERLY REGIMENTAL CORPORAL-MAJOR, 
ROYAL HORSE GUARDS ; SERVICE AUROAD ; MISSION 
TO LOBENGULA AND MATABELELAND. 


extremely popular with both officers and men 
serving under him. 

Then comes a lieutenant, who must pre¬ 
viously have been a colonel in the Regular 
Army. This office is now Med by Sir Horatio 
Yance, w4io used to command the 38th Regi¬ 
ment. Below him comes an ensign, who 
must have been a colonel iu former days. 


420 


THE WlXnson MAGAZTXE. 



ATTEMPT ON THE LIFE OF KING GEORGE III., AUGUST 2 , 1786 . 
From an old jn'int. 


the Yeomen served as active and 
regular body - ser\'aiits to the 
sovereigns of the sixteenth cen- 
tniy. 

A word or two as to the pay 
of the various ranks may be 
interesting. The privates get 
£50 aminally, besides their pen¬ 
sion money for former services. 
The “messengers” and similar 
ranks get £75 a year, and the 
lowest officer gets no less than 
£ 100 . 

As to tlieir quaint and strange 
arms and adornments, these are 
also the survivals of olden tiines. 
The Yeomen used to carry during 
the Tudor period tlie weapons 




and so also 
must have 
been the 
“Clerk of 
the Cheque 
and Adju¬ 
tant.” This 
latter officer 
gets his title 
from the fact 
that in olden 
times he used 
to have to 
keep the 
‘‘ checker,” 
the roll of 
Royal ser¬ 
vants. Four 
other officers 
are termed 
‘‘ exons,” 
which curi¬ 
ous title is supposed to have been 
derived from the French word 
exempt —that is, free from certain 
duties, the word “ exempt ” being 
sounded as if it were written 
“exoint,” and hence corrupted 
into “ exon.” Even till last 
century there were similar 
“ exons ” in the Household 
Cavalry. 

Besides these there are non¬ 
commissioned officers who do 
duty in the YYomen of the 
Guard as messengers, sergeant- 
majors, Yeomen bed-goers, lYo- 
men bed-hangers, etc. What the 
precise work of these would be 
to-day it is difficult to deter¬ 
mine, but the names show how 


MARGARET NICHOLSON ATTEMPTING TO STAR HIS IMAJIOSTY ON 
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 2 , 1786 . 

From an old prini. 


then in use, 
a n d t h e y 
have prac¬ 
tically con¬ 
tinued to 
keep those 
same arms. 
That is why 
we see them 
with pikes 
and halberts 
on ceremo¬ 
nial occa¬ 
sions. These 
are known to 
be purely 
ornamental, 
since tliey 
would not be 
the least 
good against 
the weapons 


ATTEMPT ON THE LIFE OF KING GEORGE III., OCTOBER 29 , 1795 
From an old print. 










THE YEOMEN OE THE (WARD. 


421 


of modern times. A conclusive proof was 
given of this in the last affair of any inoment 
in which the corps took part actively as 
‘‘ Soldiers of the Queen.” The authorities 
took away the olisolete weapons and armed 
the men with mnskets and bayonets. A\e 
shall recur to this again shortly. And as 
regards the badges of the Yeomen, many 
minor changes have taken place in the course 
of centuries. For at least two hundred and 
fifty years after the formation of the corps 
their emblem remained the English Crown 
Avith the red rose of Lancaster below it, and 
also the initials of the reigning monarch 


Those cynical folks who regard the corps 
as being purely a decorative body for the 
Sovereign, a, corps which never sees actual 
service nor is eA^en called npou to-day really 
to defend the person of the monarch, are 
mistaken. At BosAvorth the Yeomen gathered 
round the person of Henry ; at the siege 
of Tonrnai, Avhen all other troops had 
deserted the King, this corps stood firm, and 
it AA'as mainly owing to their help that he 
Avas eventually successful. Four hundred of 
them Avere left in Tonrnai to guard it, and 
so pleased Avas Henry Avith their Avork that 
he gave them all an extra payment of 4^/. a 



^hoto hy'] 


IiC<JCilC M . 

Captain French. Col. Sir Horatio Col.Lord AA^aldegrave Major Elliott. 

Col. Hennell, D.S.O. A^ance. (Captain of the Cojps). Col. Ellison. 


CAPTAIN AND OFFICEHS OF THE YEOMEN OF THE OUAPD, 1S90. 


Avith the Royal motto, ^^DiPtt ft vitoii (h'od, 
betAveen them. The thistle Avas added AA'hen 
England and Scotland Avere united legisla- 
tiA^ely under Queen Anne in ITOi), and just 
as naturally, Avhen Ireland came into the 
Union in isoi, George III. folloAved. the 
example of Queen' Anne and added the 
shamrock. All these changes are excellently 
shoAvn on the photograph, taken in the 
adjutant’s room, of the line of pikes and 
emblems representing the various alterations 
(luring each reign in the insignia of the 
Yeomen of the Guard. 


day, Avhich was a large snui in those times. 
The Yeomen aatiR Avith Henry VIII. to the 
Field of the Cloth of Gold, cpiite expecting 
to have to fight later on. It Avas the Yeomen 
who searched the Houses of Parliament 
Avhen Guy FaAvkes Avas discovered—a pro¬ 
ceeding they haA"e since carried out every 
succeeding year before Parliament assembles. 
They Avent, as stated, Avith William III. to 
the "Battle of the Boyne and fought Avell 
there. 

It Avas a YYoman of the Guard Avho 
prevented his ^fajesty King George III. 
















THE WINDHOll MAGAZISE. 


■422 



KIXG HKNUY VIII. IN TIIK DISGUISIC OK A YEOISIAN 
OF THE GUARD, VISITING A COBBLER. 


l)eiiig stabbed by tlie lunatic Margaret 
Nicholson, and so nndonbtedly saved tlie 
inonarcli’s life. And as late as 1848 it was 
the Yeomen of the Guard wlio were called 
ont^ to defend St. James’s Palace against an 
anticipated London mob during that period 
of revolutions when France was in a tninnlt 
and there was no telling what would happen 
next in England. Tliis was the time when 
the Government handed out muskets and 
bayonets to the corps, as being likely to be 
more effective than the ancient halberts and 
pikes. 

Of late years a particular interest has been 
attracted to the Yeomen of the Guard in the 
mind of the populace, owing to the wonderful 
success of the Gilbert and Sullivan opera of 
that name. But, strange to say, the opera 
perpetuates Avhat is a very common mistake, 
for, dealing with the Warders of the Tower, 
it calls them by the name of the Yeomen 
of the Guard,” which they are not. The 
true “ Yeomen of the Guard ” recognise the 
antiquity of their confreres, the Tower 
Warders ; they pay them tribute for ex¬ 
cellent service in many ways ; but they do 
not allow to them the proud title of wljich 
they themselves boast; for they point out, 
and with perfect truth, that the Beefeaters 
are quite a sepai’ate corps, though often 
attached to the Yeomen of the Guard ; that 
their uniform is minus the well-known 
shoulder-belt; that they never did act either 
as the King’s bodyguard or on the field 
of battle ; that even in Edward YI.’s time 
they were evidently considered to be 
quite a distinct body, seeing that the 
King then appointed fifteen Tower Warders 


for meritorious services to be ‘‘ Yeomen Extra¬ 
ordinary of the Bedchamber”; and that, 
lastly, whilst the Tower Warders are all 
apponited by the Constable of the Tower, 
the Yeomen of the Guard are only appointed 
by the Commander-in-Chief of the British 
Army. 

The review of the Yeomen of the Guard 
last year by the Duke of Connaught was a 
very striking ceremony, as will be seen from 
the picture here shown. No less than ninety- 
six of the hundred veterans appeared upon 
parade. Every soldier wore the medals he 
had won in active service, with the usual 
rosettes, and the lines made a gallant show. 
There Avere doyens of the Army there that 
had fought, forty-five years before, in the 
cold Crimea ; men who had marched Avith 
HaA^clock and Oiitram over the burning 
plains of India in that famous Mutiny : 
gallant felloAvs Avho had trudged beside 
“ Bobs ” in the great march to Cabul ; and 
soldiers Avho had climbed heights in face of 
the enemy in Bnrmah and China. 

There stood the renoAvned veteran, 
Sergeant-Major Holmes, Avho is one of the 
tAvo “messengers,” happy and smiling as 
ever. There stood the officers, tried and 
trusty, as in bygone days Avhen bullets rained 
round them on the field of battle—there 



Photo [Hull, Ecgent Street, lU. 


ARTHUR RULE, FORMERLY SERGT.-MAJOR 20tH FOOT. 
AND MAJOR. IN 2‘Ith MIDDI.ESEX V.R.C. (rOST OKKH E), 
THE OLDEST YEo:\IAN OK THE GUARD. 









THE YEOMEN OF THE OEARD. 





I'Uoto hyl nn 1QQQ 

INSI*KCTIOX OF YEOMFN OF TIIF GUARD BY H.U.II. THE DUKE OF CONNAUCMIT, JUNE 20 , 189 .. 


they stood on parade, with swallow-tailed 
coats and epaulettes, with gold - laced 
trousers, and with cocked - hats whose 
plumes waved in the breeze. This uuifoiui, 
it may be remarked, was the one of a general 
officer during the time of the Peninsular war ; 
before that the officers of the Yeomen of the 
Guard wore‘the same uniform as their men 
do now\ 

But the dojjeii of doyons on that parade 
day was gallant old Sergeant-Major Buie, 
wliose breast was literally covered with his 


medals and clasps, and wdio wore his unique 
distinction—he is the only ‘‘ Yeoman ^ who 
possesses it—of the “ Cross of the Legion of 
Honour” of France. It was the brave 
Buie’s thirty-fourth inspection as a member 
of the famous corps. 

By kind permission of Earl Waldegrave, 
the captain, and the officers of the Yeomen 
of the Guard, special access has been given, 
for the purpose of this article, to the records 
of the corps, now" in their possession and 
not before published. 



THE FIKES AND INSK.NIA OF THE “ YEOMEN 


durin(; various reigns. 























?roo Ibot: 21 3Lcs6on in patience, 

By Fannie Moody. 
















HOW LANDOWNERS ARE MADE. 


By Arthur Goodrich. 


Illvi^trcited from Photographs by G. Pilkington. 



T HEEE can be no doubt that tlie 
success which has attended us as a 
nation is largely due to our cities, 
despite the fact tliat many people maintain 
that the only thing wliicli can reconcile a 
man to a residence in town is the blessed 
hope of getting out of it. That cities liave 
their evils no one will deny. The life they 
compel ns to lead is artificial and often 
unhealthy. Nature presents us with luxuriant 
woodlands, open moorlands, lofty hills and 
deep verdant valleys ; breezes which stir the 

r " 


became congested, a furtlier exodus had to 
be made. Then came the problem. Where 
were they to go to next ? At the opportune 
moment Mr. F. F. Eamuz, Mayor of 
Southend-on-Sea, conceived tlie idea of 
purchasing some of the Essex land which 
agricultural depression had driven out of 
cultivation, cutting it up into plots and 
selling tliem on reasonable terms to the 
public. 

The Essex landowners, being wise in their 
generation, so approved of the scheme that 
the man of enterprise was 
1 soon in a position to say, 
“ Come to me, all you lovers 
of Nature, doomed by cir- 
(jumstauces to see the sun set 
from January to December 
behind a chimney-pot instead 


liUNGAl.OWS LEAD THE WAY. 


hedges and set the trees a-wav¬ 
ing, redden tlie skin and expand 
the frame. The vitiated air of 
big cities, with their close streets 
and stuffy rooms, impoverishes 
the blood and undermines the 
constitution. 

Every year has so swollen 
the population of the cities, and 
so increased their size, that the 
country, despite the talk about 
the locomotive conquering space, has gradu¬ 
ally become more and more remote. This 
is true of all our cities, but more particularly 
of the Metropolis. 

Small wonder, then, that thousands of 
fresh-air-loving Londoners, finding their 
tether becoming gradually more and more 
narrowed, look eagerly about for some means 
of freeing themselves from the bondage of 
the big city. The suburbs for a time provided 
an asylum, but when these in their turn 


ROSEBERY AVENUE AND SALISBURY DRIVE. 

of a purple hill. Come to me, and I will 
provide you with a restiug-place, out of 
sight and yet within easy journey of the 
great city, where you can plant your house¬ 
hold gods amid groves and glades, hills and 
dales ; where those you lo^^e can watch the 
sunshine painting the meadows with delight, 
giving splendour to the flowers and beauty 
to the trees.” 

But confidence being a plant of slow 
growth, the public were loth to respond. 

425 2 G 



426 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


It was in vain that tlie voice of the pioneer 
annonnced that the plots would be sold 
absolutely without reserve ; that payments 
would be extended over four years; that 
conveyances Avould not only be free, but 
that there would be absolutely no law costs ; 
that tithes would be redeemed whenever 
practicable, and possession of tlie land 
immediately given. 

It was all very well to talk about immediate 
possession, but what about roads and drains ? 
Who would defray the cost of these ? 

“ I will,” said the vendor. 

“ There must be something wrong about 
the scheme if you do. You must have an 
axe of your own to grind. You offer us 
land on better terms than one can purchase 
a piano ! It’s bound to be a swindle ! ” 

So the very people who should have 
canonised Mr. Eamuz denounced him as a 
trickster, and even when the enthusiastic 
Mayor, in order to dispose of the land he had 
purchased, offered to take them by special 
train and cheap tickets to the sale, they still 
held aloof. 

“Well, free luncheon as well,” cried the 
now desperate pioneer. And the lunch 
did it. 

There was something suspicious about the 
plots. Terms and prices were too reasonable, 
or at least they looked so. But a thirty-mile 
railway journey and back with a champagne 
luncheon for two shillings ; there coidd be 
no mistake about that. So they Avent, and 
as the road to the Englishman’s heart lies 
through his stomach, they found the luncheon 
so good that they stayed to the sale, and, 
feeling at peace Avith the Avorld just then, 
planked doAvii their money Avith great 
cheerfulness. 

They part Avith their money more readily 
noAV, but not so cheerfully. Deep doAvn in 
the human heart, sociologists teU us, dAvells 
an innate desire to OAvn land. At land sales 
the instinct reveals itself in bidding that 
borders on the acrimonious, especially Avhen 
plots directly facing the sea are put up. 

Sales during the season are held three 
and even four times a Aveek, and although 
50,000 landowners have already been created, 
the special trains are alAAuys packed. Mr. 
Ramuz, the originator of the movement, 
notwithstanding his duties as Mayor of 
Southend-on-Sea—Avhich, as far as I can 
judge, largely consist in feasting the juvenile 
population—still finds time to attend some 
of the sales, though the enterprise has 
evolved into AAdiat is known as “ The Land 
Company,” with Mr. George Ramuz, a son 


of the Mayor, as auctioneer. So estates have 
been bought and cut into plots at Southend, 
Leigh-on-Sea, Westcliffe-on-Sea, PrittleAvell, 
Maldon, Norton Park, Shoeburyness, Waker¬ 
ing, Tilbury Docks, Laindon Hills, Pitsea, 
Yange, Basildon, Chingford, Rochford, 
Rayleigh, Herne Bay, Westminster-on-Sea, 
Bishopstone Glen, Hilborough-on-Sea, Ropley, 
Ilford, etc., etc. But more are Avanted, 
and prices must be Ioav enough to bring 
the land Avithin tlie reach of all. 

At Laindon—breezy Laindon, as they call 
it—the Mayor sells plots to the Avorking 
class, 100 feet by 20 feet Avide, outright for 
£5, and spreads the payments over four 
years, which means that anyone can become 
a landoAvner for 6c/. a week. 

During the summer months the specials, 
fare nominal Avith luncheon throAvn in, are 
simply packed. A tradesman Avill tell you 
on the platform that after forty years behind 
the counter he thinks sleeping in the air of 
the country Avill do him good. 

And such a mixed gathering, too ! May- 
fair may not send its contingent, but all 
other sections are Avell represented. Half¬ 
pay officers, on Avhose slender resources the 
rents of toAvn press heavily, clerks, profes¬ 
sional men, aa' ell-to-do mechanics, young 
couples, some starting in matrimony, others 
waiting tOl they have got the home, young 
men, old men, speculators of the sort Avho 
buy a lot VAuth the object of selling it at a 
profit, and others aaRo have come to buy 
for friends, a pushing, eager croAA’d, whose 
indifference to China, Transvaal, and other 
brimming questions is evidenced in the 
absence of neAvspapers and the abundance of 
plans of the estate. Ah, those plans ! hoAV 
they are conned over ! 

“ You see that plot,” said a gentleman to 
me recently in a land sale train, bursting to 
take someone into his confidence. “If I 
don’t get that plot, I Avon’t have any.” 

“ Has it any particular advantages ? ” I 
asked. 

“I should think it has,” Avas the reply. 
“ There’s a running brook on this estate, and 
if I buy this plot I shall be able to divert 
the stream through my garden into some 
reservoirs I shall build. As it Avill be years 
before the Avater company comes along, I 
shall be able to supply the neighbours with 
Avater for some years on my oaaii terms, 
Avhich Avill be a halfpenny the pail.” 

Community of object making short Avork of 
insular reserve, conversation in land trains is 
delightfully general. Everyone laughs at 
the simple folk who make no effort to free 


HOW LA H DOWNERS ARE MADE. 


427 



ONF.Y KIOSKS AND 
BAND-STANDS WILL 
HR ALLOWRD ON 

THK KSl’LANADR. 

fclieinselves from 
the miseries of 
town life, and is 
confident that 
the real secret 
of long life and 
happiness lies in 
purchasing a 
small piece of 
land ontside 
L 0 n d 011 a n d 
building on it a 
house after a kutuur 
design of one’s town. 
own. 

On the train’s arrival at 
its destination, the companj 
with great precipitation 
rush from the station and, 
headed by the auctioneer, 
make straight for their 
future homes. To-day’s 
sale is at Herne Bay, and 
as Herne Bay is close, cpiite 
close, to the German Ocean 
—Avhich, as we all know, is 
remarkable for the quality 
of its ozone — everyone 
sniffs. This causes the auctioneer to declare 
that ‘‘ Herne Bay is not only the garden 
of England, but quite the healthiest place 
in the world,” whicli is, of course, saying 
a good deal. 

It is a beautiful day, and everyone looks 
supremely happy save the land speculators. 
When the weatlier is bad attendances are 
small, and lots are knocked down cheap. 
The place we are bound for is the AYest 
Cliff, Herne Bay. 

A smart walk of twenty minutes so 


sharpens our appetites tliat the moment 
the marquee is seen all insensildy hurry 
forward. But the time for luncheon is 
not yet. 

Messrs. Bamuz insist that their clients shall 
know what they are bidding for, so, escorted 
by tlie auctioneer, they are introduced to 
their future homes. A few take up their 
quarters in preference outside the luncheon- 
tent, to rest maybe, or possibly to have the 
pick of the seats—who knows ? But the 
majority, plan in hand, 
follow the auctioneer. 

“ AYe are now, ladies 
and gentlemen, in Eose- 
bery Avenue.” You look 
round ; you are in a field 
dotted all over with little 
pegs, and, just where you 
are standing, kerbstones 
and a sprinkling of gravel 
indicate the site of the 
thoroughfare yet to come. 
To-day it is no more Eose- 
Avenue than Corn- 
Cornhill, but it will 
be before long ; 
of that no one 
doubts. 

‘‘ AYhich is Sea 
Street ? ” says a 
lady, who, having 
made a small for¬ 
tune out of a 
lodging-house at 
Southend - on - 
Sea, is going to 
build another of 
her own to ac¬ 
commodate four- 


p:n koutr to 

KLONDYKK. 


RUTUllR LANDOWNKHS CONTKMPI.ATINli SKA STKKKT. 







428 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



teen guests, and do Avitliont “ wretched land¬ 
lords,” as she calls them. Sea Street having 
been indicated, and a grocer from the south 
of London having been assured that no 
shops save tliose sliown on the plans would 
be allowed on the estate, the genteel section 
of the crowd are taken to Alexandra Drive 
and Salisbury ditto. 


anyone living in Rothschild Avenue must 
have a very poor opinion of his species. 

The company having been assured by the 
auctioneer that no houses will be allowed in 
front of the Spa and the Grand Esplanade, 
nothing except kiosks and band-stands, a bell 
is heard, whereupon everyone rushes with 
positively frantic haste to the marquee. 
The German Ocean has done its work, and 
for the moment plots are forgotten. 

Land sale luncheons are above criticism. 
People will put up with anything when they 
pay for it. Give it them for notliing and 
they become critical at once. Rut the viands 
are first class—so excellent, indeed, as quite to 
neutralise the impression which, under less 
happy auspices, miglit have been conveyed by 
the itinerant orchestra in attendance outside. 

There is nothing novel in the spectacle of 
several hundred people feasting in a tent, but 
this crowd is worth studying. Deadheads 


SOME UNHAPPY LAND SPECULATORS— 
PRICES RATE HIGH ON A FINE DAY. 


New communities are always 
aspiring, and those who owe their 
existence to the Mayor of Southend 
and his friends believe in high- 
sounding, not to say full-flavoured, 
names. At land sales it is so 
common a thing to hear the auc¬ 
tioneer exclaim, “ We will now 
take the plot 
in Gracechurch 
Street or the 
Strand,” that no one 
betrays the slightest 
astonishment. Be¬ 
sides, imposing and 
stately names add 
to the dignity of 
towns in the bud. 

The people who 
rent moors and 
deer forests don’t 
dislike their shoot¬ 
ing-boxes any the frequent measuring 

more for their being 

called castles. Why, then, should we sneer 
at lesser mortals who find Sir Walter 
Raleigh Drive, Ann Boleyn Avenue, Ravens- 
court Chase, etc., more attractive than 
Robert Street, Borough Road, and the 
like ? 

The tradesman who would refuse credit to 


PRICYENTS SHRINKAGE. 


“ BLESS THE MAN ! DO 
YOU MEAN TO SAY 
YOU can’t find YOUR 
PLOT ? ” 


are, of course, pre¬ 
sent. They talk 
glibly about land, 
study their plans 
with apparently 
absorbing interest, 
and occasionally 
bid, but they never 
buy. So, this being 
noticed, and their address obtained by an 
official on the pretext of sending them a 
catalogue of the next sale, they one morning 
receive a letter politely requesting them not 
to patronise the sales any more. 

Luncheon over, the tables removed and a 
rostrum erected, the auctioneer clears his 




HOW LANDOWNERS ARE MADE. 


429 



throat, calls for silence, and proceeds 
to describe the property he is about 
to sell. There is nothing automatic 
about this auctioneer. In fact, his 
eloquence grows quite seductive when 
he assures his audience that the place 
is not one of those delightful spots 
only to be reached after a long and 
agonising sea voyage, or an inter¬ 
minable journey by train, being 
actually within an hour and a half of 
London. 

“ Westward Ho ! ladies and gen¬ 
tlemen, is a veritable Paradise at 
London’s gate. Fish is scarce off 
the Dogger Bank, but not here ; and 
as to shrimps-” 

“ Never mind the shrimps, man,” 
says an austere lady with an eye like 


DURING LUNCHEON LAND IS QUITE 
FORGOTTEN. 

Mars to threaten and command; 

“tell us something about the drains.” 

“ Are the town council of Herne 
Bay to be relied on ? ” says another. 

“ What is the attitude of the 
Local (Jovernment Board towards 
Westward Ho ? ” cries a third. 

“Unfriendly, you bet,” says a 
stout man. “ Whitehall don’t care 
about us landowners.” 

Then a heated debate ensues. 

There was a time when people 
bought plots without reference to 
sanitary conditions, but all that is changed 
now. The auctioneer has to undergo a search¬ 
ing examination, and if his answers are not 


satisfactory as to out¬ 
falls, di’ain-pipcs, water- 
borings, lighting, etc., 
he has a distinctly bad 
time of it. Sometimes 
when closely pressed he 
will flood the meeting 
with eloquence,saying— 

“ Gaze around you, 
ladies and gentlemen. 
Here the sunshine 
glorifies sea and earth 
alike, ripening the crops 
and covering the 
dimpled surface of the 
ocean with splashes of 
molten gold. Think 
what tlie attractions of 
this enchanting spot 
will be like if the rail¬ 
way company redeem 
the promise they have 
made to build a rail¬ 
way station. When that 
time comes, you will be 
brought within one and a half 
hours of the great Metropolis, 
where from clammy dawn to 
foggy eve stand interminable 
lines of houses, with every lirick 
alike, myriads of chimney-pots, 
and lamp-posts by the thou¬ 
sand.” 

But what is the use of 
badgered land auctioneers taking 
refuge in such verbal gorgeous- 


TIIE COMPANY NOW SETTLE DOWN TO BUSINESS. 

ness when a lady sternly interrupts hiin, 
saying, There are mothers present, and in 
their name I ask you, sir, to say plainly whether 












480 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


the authorities at Herne Bay will look after 
the sanitary wants of Westward Ho ! ” 

One admirable feature characterises these 
sales. There are so many lots for disposal 
that anything in the shape of a knock-out is 
difficult. It has been tried, with results 
disastrous to the ring. 

It is whilst the bidding is in progress that 
you learn what a varied thing liumanity is. 
An extremely genial old lady ljuys several 
lots. You ask who she is. It transpires 
that she keeps a sweetstuff shop somewhere 
in London. The neighbourhood is so poor 
that she declares that only on two occasions 
has she ever sold, in twenty years, as much 
as a pennyworth at a time. Yet she has 
saved out of ha’porths and farthingsworths 
enough to invest £400 in land. 

But her investments are greatly exceeded 
by those of another lady, who, as far as the 
number of her estates and plots is concerned, 
is the largest landed proprietor in the world. 

“ I could not really tell you how many 
plots I possess,” she said, in answer to a 
question of mine. ‘‘ All I know is that it’s 
everywhere.” 

Judging by the sweep she gave her arm 
when she said this, I took everywhere to 
mean all over the world. 

The public evidently believe in the future 
Westward Ho ! of Herne Bay. Shop 
plots, always a sure test of the calculated 
development of local prosperity, fetch liigh 
prices. The bidding is characterised by a 
sublime disregard for the schemes of those 
reformers who would nationalise the land. 

I have alluded to the landowning desire 
as an instinct. This applies only to the 
gentlemen. With lady bidders it becomes a 
passion, revealing itself in the most curious 
and unexpected manner. 

I watched one lady bidding unsuccessfully 
for plot after plot. Presently she secured 
one. “ My boy is a landowner at last,” she 
cried, and the tears rushed into her eyes. I 
looked at tlie infant she carried in lier arms. 
Being only two months old, he did not, of 
course, realise the enormous change the last 
few moments had VTOught in his status. 

Another tiling noticeable in the crowd 
which attends land sales is their lack of 
humour. That they are hopeful admits of 
no doubt. They bid as if the lots were in 
Ivlondyke instead of Kent or Essex, l)ut 
they won’t joke. 

When the auctioneer playfully recommends 


a lot on the ground that there is more ozone 
in Lot 45 than there is in Lot 46, which he 
has just sold, someone is sure to remark, 
“ There won’t be any at all if you allow any 
more buildings in front of it.” 

They are also peculiar in other respects. 
When an Englishman determines on trans¬ 
ferring his goods and chattels to some other 
clime, choice is regulated, as a rule, by the 
advantages offered. At land sales it is 
different. People from the south of London 
will buy in Kent, but not in Essex, and 
vice versa. 

By 5 p.m. the last lot is disposed of, and 
the newly made landowners stream into the 
open to samjDle the land of which they are 
now the proprietors. Some glare at their 
purchases with a stern intentness, as if they 
suspected the plot had an intention of 
absconding ; others gaze rapturously at the 
site on which the home is to be built, and 
debate the position of the kitchen and how 
much will be left for the garden. 

I noticed one landowner regarding his 
investment Avith such evident distrust that I 
asked him if he Avas afraid of its running avny. 

‘‘There’s aawsg dangers than that,” he 
replied severely. “ Three years ago I bought 
a lot at Kochford. Last year I ran doAvn 
just to have a look round, AAffieii I found that 
someone had built on it by mistake. I ivas 
pleased.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Because I got good compensation. Run 
aAAny ! That’s Avhy I like land, because it 
does not run away.” 

Nevertheless, oAvners at first frequently 
behave as if they thought such a contingency 
not impossilde. To pay a Aveekly visit to 
your plot after it has passed into your 
possession, “ just to see that it is all right,” 
is quite a common thing. 

It is quite a sentimental scene, Avith the 
l.indoAvners all round one surveying their 
purchases ; but the lengthening shadoAvs 
AA-arn us at last that the day is ageing fast. 

“ Train goes at 7.15,” cries the auctioneer. 

Still none of the magnates stir. True, 
the land on Avliich they stand is their OAAm, 
but have they laid out their money to adA^an- 
tage ? Of course they have. Is not the 
air laden Avith health and exhilaration ? 
Y^iy, of course ! And are not the payments 
spread over four years ? Nothing like 
leather ? “ Nothing like land ! ” says the 

Britisher. 


THE MIRACULOUS INSPIRATION OF MR. JESTY. 

By Orme ActNUS.'^ 

Illustrated by Gunning King. 


first sight it 
^vould not 
seem inspirit¬ 
ing to relate 
an episode in 
the life of 
Mr. John 
J e s t j, a 
young man 
whom our 
village looked 
upon as the 
dullest youth 
Avithin its 

borders. He Avas “a bit ov a zaft-head,” in 
the judgment of even tolerant critics, and 
while irreverent youngsters delighted in 
tormenting him, there always seemed to me 
a shade of mockery or banter in the tone 
of all AAdio had speech Avitli him — the 
“ Marnen, Jock ; Iioav goes it ? ” AA^as gener¬ 
ally accompanied by a half-mocking laugh, 
as though it were absurd to imagine that he 
could give a sensible opinion on the w^eather 
or his OAAm state of health. 

Mr. Jesty, the village smith, is one of onr 
most substantial men, and his house is the 
most picturesque in the village. The smithy 
yard has some title to be considered onr 
village forum. Some evenings you may find 
ten or a dozen lounging about, for the smith 
always Avorks after tea for an hour at least, 
though, except in the busiest times, he Avill 
not alloAA' his sons to do so. Boys, he sensibly 
says, work better for a bit of play. 

Mr. Jesty, by natural right, is chief of our 
village fathers, who seek his society that they 
may be fortified against subtle attacks from 
the enemies of “ Things as They Are,” and 
particularly against the attacks of that arch¬ 
enemy of the social fabric—Eobert Dulpin. 
Mr. Jesty, as becomes a man of substance 
and a churcliAAwden, is a mighty defender of 
Church and State, and, in our opinion, has 
done as much as any man ’to protect the 
great institutions of the country from those 
who Avould lay impious hands on them. 
“ Mark my AA'Ords,” Pigsticker Sam has said 


* Cop 5 'right, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 


solemnly more than once, on leaving the 
smithy—“ Mark my Avords : Hez Jesty baint 
gAAuin to live vor ever, ’zno, and Avhen he be 
gone, I Avouldn’ gie a brass A^arden vor 
Church and State in thease parts. God help 
Queen Victorier and Wold England iv Hez 
do gwo ! ” 

Mr. Eobert Hulpin, against Avhose per¬ 
nicious doctrines Hezekiah Jesty Avages ruth¬ 
less Avarfare, is tlie village cobbler. His is 
almost the solitary voice clamant in the 
AAulderness of our village ; for, though AA^e 
do not all don the colours of one party, 
Mr. Dulpin’s opinions are too extreme for 
all but one or tAA^o. 

Except AAdien under the demonic influ¬ 
ence of drink, he is to be found at the 
smithy in the evening, ‘Hryen to knock 
a grain of zense into Jesty and t’others,” 
but, according to his oaaui account, finding 
it impossible to succeed against immovable 
ignorance. He never has any intention of 
going near old Jesty and the gaping oavIs 
AA dio foregather in the smithy yard, he de¬ 
clares, and, being a man of originality, he 
has no less than three reasons for going to 
the smithy. One is an inquiry concerning 
the carrier, another is to ask if they have 
heard Avhat pigs AA^ere fetching at Dorchester 
the previous Saturday, a third is to mention 
that if they Avant any cobbling done to send 
their boots at once, as leather is going up. 

One eA'ening in August an uncommon 
Eobert Dulpin approached the smithy. He 
had no excuse to offer for his presence, and 
having made a remark about the weather in 
a supercilious tone, he stood AAuth a smile 
on his face and AAdiistled softly. 

The audience settled themseh^es comfort¬ 
ably to listen to the resumption of the 
debate, but instead Bobbie laughed to him¬ 
self, winked at the company, and asked the 
smith, “ Where be Jock to ? ” 

Jock ? ” said Jesty, “ my Jock ? Did 
’ee AA'ant en ? ” 

‘‘ No,” said Bobbie, Avith a chuckling 
laugh, “ no, 7 don’t Avant Jock- -he ! he ! 
Want en ? No,” and he laughed again. 

“He be gone to Tunney’s to play draughts, 
I ’low,” said the smith. 

“ Draughts I draughts ! he be playen 



431 





432 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


draughts, be he ? ” rejoined Dulpin, with 
another irritating laugh. “ Vine draughts, 

I ’low. Up at Tunnej’s ! Why, smithee, he 
be avter the petticoats, be Jock. I met en 
up in the yields jnst now. Draughts ! ” 

There was nothing very defamatory to 
Jock’s character in this, but it came from 
Robert Dulpin, and that was enough. 

“ Don’t ’ee gwo vor to accuse the bwoy. 
Bob Dnlpin,” said the smith, with great 
irritation. “ Thee let Jock alone ; he have 
never done ’ee any harm. He be at 
Tunney’s, and I can tell ’ee he have naver 
gi’en a thought to maids yet.” 

“ Draughts ! Tunney’s ! You be wrong, 
smithee. It be Lucy Thatcher up to the 
Hall he be nosen round,” and the Radical 
broke into a peal of triumphant and sarcastic 
laughter. 

“ Then,” said Jesty, rolling down his 
sleeves, “ we all goes to Tunney’s, and I’ll 
show the company how much thee canst be 
believed. Bob Dulpin. That be just the 
way with you Radicals ; you be alius vinden 
vault with zomethen or zomebody, and taken 
away honest volk’s characters. And, look 
zee, iv he be there, as I know he be, thee 
pays vor half a gallon ; iv I be wrong, I 
pays vor a gallon.” 

“ Right, Hez, right; it be a bargain,” 
said the five listeners, and under the leader¬ 
ship of the grim-mouthed smith they set off 
for Tunney’s. 

As it happened, Mrs. Tunney, who is of 
a very nervous and excitable temperament, 
was sitting in the dusk alone, awaiting her 
husband. Greatly startled by the forceful 
knocking, she jumped up hurriedly and with, 
beating heart opened the door to a group of 
sober-faced men. That was enough; nothing 
but the worst could have happened. Before 
the smith could get out half of his innocent 
query, “ Be my Jock here ? ” she flung up 
her hands, and shrieking, “ Toni’s drownded 
dead ! Why couldn’ ’ee save en ? ” fell down 
ill a swoon, or, rather, would have fallen if 
Jesty had not caught her.. 

Never did seven lusty men feel more help¬ 
less or awkward. “ What shall us do ? ” 
whispered Jesty. 

Pigsticker Sam was the man for the 
emergency. “ Run, one ov ’ee, vor Mrs. 
Minclien, and one ov ’ee get a bucket of 
watter, quick,” and he knelt down, loosened 
her dress, and clapped her hands. 

Two of them ran for Mrs. Minclien, who 
was a neighbour, and Jesty and Dulpin 
fetched the water. In his excitement—it 
has since been brought forward in the 


smithy yard as an illustration supporting 
the proposition that a Trumpet of Sedition 
cannot be trusted in matters of everyday 
life—the Radical threw the whole bucketful 
on her, unmindful that Sam was bending 
over her. The pigsticker received a goodly 
portion of it, which, strange to say, did not 
cool, but heated him. “You gurt, clumsy, 
wooden-head vooil! ” he cried, prefacing the 
adjective with another that was highly im¬ 
proper ; “ do ’ee think thease be the time 
to play the zilly nanny-goat ? ” 

But Dulpin was out of hearing. With 
praiseworthy zeal, as soon as he had emptied 
the bucket, he ran to the well and filled 
it again. But another application was 
unnecessary. The first douche had revived 
her—and soaked her bodice through and 
through. 

“ There, there, poor dear ! ” said Sam 
soothingly. “ You’ll veel better in a minit.” 

“ Have they got his body out ? ” she asked 
faintly. 

“ Who do ’ee mean ? ” asked Sam. 

“ Pore dear Tom,” she cried with a sob. 
“ I knowed he’d-” 

“ There baint nothen wrong with Tommy, 
as we knows on. Missus Tunney. Do ’ee zee, 
we-” 

That roused the good lady more effectually 
than the cold douche. “ Then why did all 
you vellers come vrightenen I like thease ? ” 

But at that moment, to the relief of the 
men, up came Mrs. Minclien, her arms going 
like windmills in efforts to gain her breath. 

“ What be the matter, Zairey, my dear ? ” 
she gasped. 

“It be thease vellers, do ’ee zee; about 
ten ov ’em did come altogeder, and did zay as 
how Tunney be drownded-” 

“ Nay, nay,” cried the smitli, “ we zaid 
nothen. Do ’ee zee-” 

“ You be a pack ov vooils,” interrupted 
Mrs. Minclien, “ to go a-vrightenen a woman. 
Get away with ’ee and send Tunney hwome.” 

Mrs. Minchen’s features were expressive 
of fiercest scorn, and without a word they 
slunk off. In silence they walked together, 
and by a marvellous instinct turned with 
one accord into the inn-parlour. 

A full minute of absolute silence was 
broken by Dulpin chuckling. “ Y'ou orders 
a gallon, smithee.” 

“Ees, ees, you lost, Jesty,” said the 
others, roused into cheerfulness. “ You 
pays, ov course. Jock warn’t there.” 

The smith, recalled to the object of the 
disastrous expedition, frowned grimly upon 
them, apparently lost in thought. “ He 





THE MIRACULOUS INSPIRATION OF MR. JESTY. 


4B3 


warn’t there,” he said at last. “ Well, look 
zee, then, I pays,” and calling loudly for the 
ale he threw half-a-crown with a lordly air 
on the table, muttering that all the same he 
did not believe his boy was “ petticoaten.” 

Jock Jesty was indeed in love, and in pur¬ 
suit of a maid, as Dulpin had said, though 
the cobbler had merely guessed it. He had 
met Lucy Thatcher in the fields on her way 
to the Hall, and in the next field had met 
Jock. Knowing Jock well, he did not really 
believe that love had touched him ; but to 


Hairy Jock.” But although it was easy to 
see lie was Jesty’s son, he lacked the alert¬ 
ness and humour of his fatlier. Nevertheless, 
he was a thoroughly good lad ; he stopped 
at home, and Avas his fatlier’s right-hand 
man, and never betrayed a double dose of 
original sin by expressing a longing to be a 
sailor ; he understood the Imsiness of the 
smithy as well as his father, and had a more 
enlightened mind as regards neAV-fangled 
appliances and labour-saving devices. 

The smith reached home on tliat eventful 



“ ‘ Don’t 'ee gwo vor to accuse the bwoy, Bob Dulpin.’ ” 


assert it, he thought, would be a good way 
in which “ to take a rise out of wold Jesty.” 

Jock was a sober, phlegmatic young fellow, 
and of good, though sIoav intelligence. But, 
unfortunately, what is perhaps Heaven’s 
choicest gift had been denied him—he had 
not a particle of humour, and his open and 
somewhat vacuous countenance caused people 
who did not really know more of him than 
was on the surface to look upon him as a fool. 

Physically he was cast in the same mould 
as his father—a stalwart, broad-shouldered 
youth, Avith AvelLcut features. He had a fine 
moustache at eighteen, and a beard at twenty, 
and our village youngsters dubbed him 


night still sore from the evening’s defeats. 
He flung his hat on the sofa and dropped 
heavily on a chair, groAvling, “ What the 
Avorld’s conien to I don’t know ! They tell 
I right and left our Jock be coorten—a 
bAvoy only just breeched.” 

“ And Avhy shouldn’ he be, iv he do Avant?” 
retorted Mrs. Jesty, her Avings outspread in 
an instant in defence of her best-beloved. 
‘‘ He be Avoid enough, I ’Ioa\^, and he be good 
enough vor any maid in Dorset. We Avas 
married nearly at his age.” 

“ Oh, I’A^e nothen to zay agen it, look 
zee,” said the smith, hastily taking AAwning 
by his Avife’s staccato. Mighty defender of 







434 


THE WIXUSOR MAGAZINE. 


Old England as he was, and ever ready to 
do battle with the enemy without or within 
her gates, he had learnt the deeper wisdom 
some men seem incapable of learning, that if 
a woman have a will of her own, a man’s will, 
in all but matters of vital moment, should 
coincide with it. 

“ Who be she ? ” asked Mrs. Jesty. 

“One ov they maids at the Hall, I’ve been 
told,” the smith replied. 

“ Oh, it be Zarah Guest, then,” explained 
Mrs. Jesty, her tone suggestive of infinite 
satisfaction. “ He couldn’ have vound a 
better maid anywhere, I ivill zay. Trust 
Jock vor getten the best.” 

“ That baint her name, mother. It be the 
other maid, they do zay. I can’t mind her 
name now—Lucy zometheu.” 

“Oh, Lucy Thatcher. I made sure it’d 
be she when you spoke. Zarah be a good 
maid, but Lucy have good looks, too, I ’low. 
Well, well, to think he should gwo and pick 
out the maid I had my eye on vor en ! ” 

“ The bwoy might have told we, I did 
think.” 

“ Oh, he baint one vor tellen everythen, 
and I don’t blame en. We’ll ask she here 
to tea. She knowed a good thing when she 
let our Jock make up to her, I ’low.” 

Jock, when he came in a few minutes 
later, could not understand what he had 
done to deserve his mother’s warm welcome. 

“A sly un, be our Jock, baint he, 
vather ? ” she said. 

“ What be the matter ? ” asked Jock. 

“ Oh, we knows. You be coorten Lucy 
Thatcher. You might have told I. Did ’ee 
think, my dear, your wold mother,” kissing 
him again, “ would have zaid any then 
agen it ? ” 

The effect astonished her. Instead of 
a happy, smiling blush, he turned pale, and 
for a few seconds stood paralysed, as though 
accused of some monstrous crime. When 
he found his voice it was to cry in 
gasps— 

“ I baint coorten ! I baint coorten ! It 
be a lie ! I baint coorten ! ” 

“ Now, don’t ’ee take on ’bout it,” said 
Mrs. Jesty soothingly. 

“ It be a lie, I tell ’ee !” cried Jock wildly. 
“ I have been a walk by meself. Me avter 
maids ! It be a lie.” 

“ There, never mind, my bwoy,” said 
Mrs. Jesty. “ But don’t ’ee think we should 
mind. I should be glad to zee ’ee pick up 
a nice, good-looken maid like she. You can 
bring any maid here to tea whenever you be 
minded.” 


“ I baint coorten ; I never spoke to she 
thease evenen. It be a lie.” 

Jock’s agitation was increasing with every 
attempt to soothe him ; he kept repeating 
that it was a lie, and he was not courting, 
with the irresponsibility of a man partially 
intoxicated. 

Dick came in at this stage, and Jock 
eagerly appealed to him against the 
monstrous charge. 

“They do zay I be coorten,” he said, 

“ that I have been walken maids about. 
Didn’ ’ee zee I up-along by meself ? ” 

“If thee baint coorten, my bwoy,” said 
Dick in a paternal tone, “ thee be never too 
wold to begin, ’zno. Iv thee wants any help 
with a maid, Jock, I’ll give ’ee a hand and 
charge nothen. Shall I gwo and catch one 
vor ’ee ? ” 

Jock had worked himself into a fury. 
“ Didn’ ’ee zee I ? ” he shouted. 

“ Oh, ees, that be right enough ; don’t 
’ee get excited,” said the irreverent Dick. 
“ Iv I ever zee ’ee with a maid, look zee, I 
shall be skeert. But don’t ’ee be avraid, my 
zon. Iv any maid comes avter ’ee thee 
doesn’t want, just tell I, and I’ll talk to she. 
Maids shan’t vrighten the pore bwoy iv I 
can help it. The pore bwoy do look as iv a 
maid had been skeeren en to death, don’t he, 
mother ? ” 

“ Be quiet,” commanded Mrs. Jesty. 

“ Just let I show Jock how to deal with a 
maid,” was Dick’s reply. “ Come, me zon, 
z’pose you was a maid I was vond ov, and I 
was coorten ’ee. I should take holt of thee 
dear ickle hand vor a start like this, and-” 

“ Dick, drop it,” cried the smith, who saw 
a storm brewing ; and Dick, muttering that 
he got no thanks for trying to help the poor 
boy, began his supper. When his father 
commanded in that tone it was well to obey. 

“ It be a lie ; Dick zeen I by meself,” 
Jock said again, and, taking his candle, went 
off to bed. 

The problem of how a maid was singled 
out and approached, and the compact sealed, 
had often presented itself to Mr. Jock 
Jesty’s mind, but purely in an impersonal 
way, until a few months before Dulpin’s 
awful accusation. 

One bright, hot morning lie was at work 
in the smithy alone, his father and Dick 
having gone to execute some repairs at the 
Vicarage. He was beating out a horseshoe, 
and hissing—he rarely whistled—the tune of 
Luther’s Hymn in time with his strokes, 
when a shadow darkened the doorway, and, 
ere he had time to look up, a voice said— 



THE MIRACULOUS INSPIRATION OF MR. JESTY. 


435 



“ ‘ A beautiful niourncn. IMr. .Testy 

“Good iiiouriien ; a bcciutiful iiioiiriieii, 

Mr. Jesty.” 

Jock dropped the red-hot horseshoe on 
liis boot and stood stu[)idly staring. It was 
Lucy Thatcher. 

“A beautiful inournen,” said Lucy again, 
smiling at liis discomposure. 

“ Marnen—marnen -miss,” Jock said at 
last. 

“ Is your father at home, Mr. Jesty ? ” 

“ No, miss, lie—that is to zay—he baint.” 

“ Well ”—Lucy laughed her sentences 
rather than spoke them—“ you’ll do instead, I 
expects. He is to come to the Hall as soon as 


ever he can, to see 
to the kitchen boiler; 
it have gone wrong. 
1 was comen to the 
post-office, and cook 
asked me if I would 
mind callen, as it 
would save Gills a 
journey.” 

Jock stared at her 
all the time with a 
solemnity that, in 
spite of her amuse¬ 
ment, almost alarmed 
her, although by 
reputation Jock was 
no stranger to her. 
Her friend, Miss 
AYidge, was greatly 
interested in her 
future, and several 
times had enumer¬ 
ated the eligible 
young men of the 
village, giving 
thumb-nail charac¬ 
ter-sketches of each, 
and subsequently 
had arranged them 
in order of desir¬ 
ability. Jock Jesty, 
the reader may be 
surprised to learn, 
stood among the first 
half-dozen. “ Then 
there is Jock Jesty,” 
ran Miss Widge’s 
sketch, “ you know 
he by sight, I ’low. 
He be tall and 
strong, but he do 
look rather stoopid, 
and do never walk 
out with a maid or 
talk to them. I will 
say he do look rather ridic’lous till you know 
him better ; but there ! the business will go 
to him Avhen old Jesty do die, and they do 
own six houses and some land, and have 
heaps and heaps of money in the bank. If 
you feel you could love better where money 
is, Jock’s tlie man, my dear : but as for I, 
he be a bit too slow, though it be })rincipally 
looks as be agen him.” 

“ It must be very liot, worken in there 
such weather,” said Lucy, still lingering. 
She never forewent the opportunity of 
speaking to a young fellow, even though liq 
were stupid. 








436 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Jock only answered her questions by nods, 
and, greatly as he longed to converse with 
her with a little of the ease his brother Dick 
would have displayed, he found himself 
almost dumb and helpless before her. ^ She 
was turning away in amusement and disgust 
at his stupidity, when, suddenly, as if a spirit 
not his own had taken possession of him, he 
was inspired and became another being, and 
spoke as a man to a maid. 

“ Do ’ee like apples, gurt vine apples ? ” 
he asked, laughing outright. 

Lucy was amazed at the transformation, 
but she managed to simper that she doted 
on apples. 

“Come thease way, then, do ’ee. Curt 
vine nns,” and taking hold of her hand he 
led her at headlong "pace round the smithy 
into the garden—that garden that was the 
envy of the village—crying all the while, 

“ Gurt vine apples they be, just about.” ^ 

He seized a bough and plucked the ripest 
and reddest fruit in frantic haste, Lucy all 
the while with a giggle protesting that she 
had enough. 

“ Plums ? ” cried Jock again, and taking 
hold of her sleeve, he led her to the north 
wall and plucked off the ripe fruit as if for a 
wager. Lucy now protested in earnest. 

“Not another single one of anythen, 
Mr. Jesty, please. You are so good, I don’t 
know how to thank you,” and she smiled 
sweetly upon him. 

For the first time since they had entered 
the garden his eyes met her smiling face. 
The result was disastrous. Suddenly, _ as 
though her smile had withered it, his inspira¬ 
tion vanished, and without a word he 
turned hastily round and hurried with down¬ 
cast head back to the smithy, leaving Lucy 
to find her way out of the garden alone. 
As she passed the smithy and cried, “ Good- 
mournen, Mr. Jesty,” he dared not look up 
nor make response. 

Pie went in to dinner filled with alarm 
lest his mother or sister should have seen 
him in the garden ; but nothing was said, 
and at last he summoned up courage to tell 
his father about the boiler at the Plall. 

On the first opportunity Lucy came into 
the village to see Miss Widge, and confided 
the whole story to her. 

“ Now what do ’ee think ov it, my dear ? ” 
asked Lucy anxiously. “Do ’ee think he 
did mean anythen by it ? He be zo vunny, 
I don’t know what to make of it. Not that 
if he did mean-” 

“ Mean anythen ? ” interrupted Miss 
pVidge. “If Jock Jesty did that much, he 


showed he have an attachment to you, my 
dear, so plain as plain.” 

“ Then you think, my dear, I med listen 
to him if he do mention—that is to say,.iv 
he do mean anythen.” 

Miss Widge was quite confident she 
might. 

“ You have taken a weight off my mind, 
you don’t know,” said Lucy. “ There be 
Tom Belfield, in the sUibles, as you know, 
my dear, have been anxious to walk out with 
I ; but I can swear I never did encourage 
he one single minit when he did come walken 
along with 1. Good-night, and thank ’ee, 
my dear.” 

If a weight had been taken off Tmcy’s 
shoulders, a heavy burden rested on Jock’s. 
As soon as work was over he hastened out 
and smoked his pipe against the church wall, 
and almost every evening he was rewarded 
by a sight of the maid. If anyone was 
near as she passed, he feigned not to see 
her ; but if no one was in sight, he nodded, 
or even ventured to say, ‘‘ Good evenen,” 
or “ Yine evenen.” Once, when thus en¬ 
couraged, Lucy stopped in order to have a 
chat with him. But she never repeated it. 
Jock’s dismay was ludicrous. Casting fearful 
glances round, he shrank from her as though 
she carried contagion, and muttering that 
he was in a hurry he at last made off 
through the churchyard, leaving Lucy with 
tears of vexation in her eyes. Nevertheless, 
when she returned to the Hall, Jock fol¬ 
lowed her, although he always kept at least 
one or two hundred yards in the rear. 

Although Jock never imagined it, Lucy 
was not so witless that she was unaware that 
she was followed, and at first congratulated 
herself upon it; but when it was repeated 
time after time with no lessening of the 
distance between them, although she walked 
at a funereal pace and often stopped to 
admire the scenery, she became despondent 
and carried her troubles to her confidante. 

“ I never seen such a maid for looken on 
the dark side as you, my dear,” Miss Widge 
retorted. “ You know how he be. And 
though you haven’ said so, I can see you be 
real taken with him, my dear.” 

Lucy blushed and laughed a little. “ Oh, 

well, as for that-” mid Miss Widge 

rightly interpreted the ellipsis to mean that 
it could be understood she was the least bit 
fond of him. 

Miss Widge had often discussed Lucy’s 
affair of heart with Mr. Yetman, and that 
evening when William James “came 
coorten ” she had a bright idea. “ Now, 




THR MIRACULOUS INSrlRATlORf OF MR. JRSTY. 487 



“ He .seized a bough and [jlucked the ripest and reddest fruit in frantic haste.” 


ray dear,’’ she said, “ when you see Jock, 
just put ill a word to show him he need 
only to ask to liave. You can easily do it, 
my dear. I feel i*eal sorry for Lucy.” 

Williaiu James did not seem to think it 


easy, but he promised, and the next time he 
saw Jock he was demonstratively friendly. 

Hello, Jock, my bwoy,” he began. 
“ Been taken a stroll round ? ” 

“ Ees,” said Jock, “ just a bit ov nn, ’zno.” 







488 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


‘‘ Grand weather vor strolleii round, l)aint 
it ? Taties and everytlien be looken tip-top, 
don’t ’ee think ? But, look zee, my bwoy, 
a young feller like thee onghtn’ to be 
strolleii round alone. Why don’t ’ee take a 
maid out, now ? There be plenty ov ’em 
’bout here ’ould only be too willen iv thee 
would.” 

Jock was flattered, Imt he shook his head 
in denial. 

“ Thee’st no need to deny it, my bwoy, 
vor it be true. I ha’ thought once or twice 
when I zeen ’ee walken thease way zo olfen, 
that thee medst be avter a maid.” 

‘‘ I baint avter no maids, / baint,” cried 
Jock with rising inflection. 

“ Then thee ought to be, at thy time ov 
life, and zo I tell ’ee,” was Mr. Yetinan’s 
retort, delivered in a tone of some severity. 
“ A man zo wold as thee, Jock, onghtn’ to 
gie thee mother the trouble ov looken avter 
’ee. Why”—and William James has ever 
since been proud of his skill in improvised 
argument—“ why, no pore woman hardly 
’onld live to zeventy, iv she had dree or vour 
gurt grown-up zons to look to. Our mothers, 
’zno, do look to we to marry and let a 
younger one take the trouble, zame as they 
did when they was maids. It baint vair, do 
’ee zee, to mother to stay to hwome, instead 
ov taken a maid to do vor ’ee. Now, honest, 
haven’ ’ee no maid in thee mind, my bwoy ? 
There be plenty ov maids have got thee in 
their eye, I ’low.” 

‘‘ I—I—I zeen a maid.” 

“ That be it, my bwoy, that be it,” said 
William James, with a hearty grip of Jock’s 
shoulder. “ Zeen a maid ! That be dree 
parts ov it! All thee’st to do now be to 
show she thee knows she be liven. I baint 
gwain to ask who she be, but next time thee 
do zee she, just zay, ‘ Good-evenen—how be ? 
nice evenen,’ and easy things ov thik zort, 
and walk beside she, and the rest’ll be easy, 
you’ll vind. Thee’st no need to be vearecl 
she’ll zay ‘ No ’ to ’ee, my bwoy; tkeEst 
only need to look at a maid, and she’ll come 
to ’ee quick maich. I wish it had been the 
zame with I,” and Yetman affected to 
sigh over his march through the parched and 
stony wilderness. 

Jock said nothing, though even his eyes 
betrayed his interest. 

“ Now, iv I was thee, Jock, I should settle 
it virst go. AYlien I was walken along and 
nobody about I should take holt of she 
suddent round the waist and kiss she. It 
be the easiest to do it suddent ; it be 
like haven a tooth out; iv you do keep 


thinken and tryen to make up your mind, 
zims you never can, but iv you does it 
suddent, it be over avore you knows it. And 
maids do like a masterful veller like that. 
Now just try it, and ask I to the wedden, 
mind. I’ll lay ’ee a shillen thee’ll be married 
avore I.” 

For the first time Jock laughed—a very 
solemn laugh, but distinctly a laugh. “ I’ll 
take ’ee,” he said, and they shook hands on 
the bargain. 


Firstly, “ Be bold ” ; secondly, ‘‘ Be 
bold ” ; thirdly, “ Be not too bold,” is 
sagest advice ; and Jock, stiffened by Mr. 
Yetman to face the fiery ordeal, had un¬ 
wittingly taken that for his motto. He 
stood behind a tree in the churchyard, and 
as soon as he saw Lucy enter the village he 
set off through the fields, turned up the 
highway, and stationed himself at a gate 
where the road bent at right angles, a spot 
about a mile and a half from the Hall. It 
was a strategic position ; seated on the gate, 
he commanded the road as far as the lodge 
gates in one direction, and in the other had 
full view of the road for some distance, as 
well as two fields through which he had 
come. It would be very easy to retreat if 
anything untoward occurred. 

Lucy came at last, depressed and irritable 
at the thought that Jock apparently was 
tired even of his very distant attentions. 
She walked with head bent down, prodding 
viciously at the roadside turf with the ferrule 
of her umbrella, thinking bitter thoughts of 
the stronger sex. She raised her eyes and 
started with genuine surprise. In an instant 
the knit brows relaxed, the mouth sweetened, 
a smile irradiated her whole countenance. 
‘‘ Good evenen, Mr. Jesty. How you startled 
I, to be sure ! ” 

“ Good evenen,” said Jock. “ Cloudy.” 

“Yery, to be sure. I do hope it won t 
thunder. Do you think it will, Mr. Jesty ? ” 

“Can’t say it will,” said Jock in the tone 
of a man wdio feels he is in the company of 
a bore and is not afraid to show it. In 
reality his nerves were all a-quivering, as 
with sinking heart he felt another burst of 
inspiration was not coming to his aid. 

Lucy’s heart sank again, the frown re¬ 
turned, and the corners of her mouth fell. 
“ Well, I must be getten on,” she said, Avith 
a pitiable assumption of cheerfulness. 

Even to that Jock had nothing to say ; 
the divine affiatus comes, no man knows 
how, to poets and lovers alike. It cannot be 


THE MIRACULOUS INSPIRATION OF MR. JESTY. 


489 


taken with violence ; prayers and striving; are 
both in vain. 

Lucy was really irritated now. “You 
gurt hoohy ! ” she muttered to lierself, and 
with a toss of her head turned away, not 
intending to give him the courtesy of “ Good- 
niglit.” 

But even as she turned it came. With a 
sudden, desperate movement he caught hold 
of her arm, so firmly that he hurt her a little 
In proof that it was genuine inspiration it 
is only necessary to mention that he did not 
even look up and down the road to make 
sure there were no spectators. 

“ Oh, Mr. Jesty!” cried Lucy, with a catch 
in her breath. “ Oh, you quite startled I ! ” 

“Apples ! ” cried Jock, and he was laugh¬ 
ing now. “ Dree gurt vine apples,” and he 
pulled the ruddy-cheeked fruit from his 
pocket and pressed them upon her. 

“ Yor I ? Oh, thank you, Mr. Jesty. You 
are good.” 

Ah, thank heaven ! it was a burst of inspi¬ 
ration worth waiting for. Jock, still laugh¬ 
ing, was walking by her side, or, rather, Lucy 
was walking by his, for, still holding her, he 
strode along with great strides, so that she 
had almost to run to keep up with him. 

“ I did enjoy they apples you gave I before, 
Mr. Jesty.” 

“ Gurt vine apples thease be,” cried Jock. 
“ I picked out the bestest.” 

“ Did you reely, Mr. Jesty ? You are good. 
It—it zims to I ”—let it be said here, in de¬ 
fence of modesty, Lucy’s face was all aflame 
while she said it, and it needed a strong effort 
of will to get out the words—“ it zims you 
must be vond ov I, then,” and in her joy and 
excitement Lucy relapsed into the fulness of 
her native Dorset. 

Jock looked up at the heavens, and Lucy, 
trembling, had to wait some moments for his 
answer. “ Zo—I—be, just about,” was his 
momentous declaration. And then he laughed 
aloud ; truly inspiration had come in full 
flood. 

“ Do ’ee mean it, Mister—Jock ? Oh, I 
be zo glad ! ” cried Lucy, the glories of the 
scarlet poppies in the wheat-field close at 
hand reflected in her face. “ I—I like you, 
do ’ee zee,” and she took his hand. 

Hand in hand and in silence, save for 
Jock’s fits of laughter, they walked on for 
some distance, and then Lucy explained 
further. 

“ I’ve liked ’ee ever zo long, my dear; but, 
do ’ee zee, I was avraid you didn’ like I, as 
you never said nothen. I be zo glad as 
never was.” 


“ I do like ’ee, just about,” repeated Jock. 
Oil, what a simple business it was to ask a 
maid, after all 1 

By this time they were near the park gates, 
and Lucy, with two or three heavy sighs, 
stopped. “ I shall have to leave ’ee, my 
dear. I had to be in at eight, and it be 
quite half-past.” 

She did not go, however, but stood facing 
him, waiting. “ Don’t ’ee know,” she said, 
when he made no sign, “ I be waiten vor ’ee 
to kiss I ‘ Good-liye,’ my dear ? ” and she held 
her face up. 

Jock’s lips met hers, but it was she who 
really gave the kiss. It proved a most 
unlucky one, for with, it the inspiration 
Avent, and instead of the bold, happy lover, 
Avas left the old Jock, aghast at his own 
temerity. With a muttered “ Good-night,” 
he turned and hurried away, once or tAvice 
looking round fearfully, as though he feared 
pursuit. 

Every night Jock Avas to be found Avaiting 
at the gate, and even if Lucy told him she 
Avould not be passing he took up his post 
all the same, but he never acknoAvledged her 
in the village Avith more than a nod. Now 
and again he had those Avonderful bui’sts of 
inspiration, and he was the pleasing lover ; 
but he had not yet had inspiration potent 
enough to induce him to accompany her 
into the village, although she had tried all 
her poAvers of persuasion. Yet he surprised 
the more frivolously-minded girl at times 
by his deeper views on the mysteries of 
AA^edded love. “ I ha’ noticed,” he said one 
evening, “ as they men Avho do pretend to 
make a gurt ado about a maid be the zort 
that do treat she bad avter—reel bad zome- 
times. I baint one ov thik zort. Yolks 
ought to get vender ov one another, I ’Ioav, 
Avhen they are AA^ed.” He had even gone so 
far as to ask her Avhat sort of furniture she 
preferred, and Avhether she thought a glass 
case containing a stuffed bird—“one ov 
they gurt Avhite birds ”—or a case of Avax 
floAvers Avould look best in their parlour. 
“You can have just Avhich you like,” he 
said. “Do ’ee zee. I’ve got eighty-seA'en 
pound ov my oAvn in the bank at Suckton 
to start Avith, and vather, he’ll do a lot for 
Ave.” But all this did not prevent him from 
leaving her side Avith precipitous haste if a 
stray passer-by happened to come in sight. 
When Lucy inquired Avhen he Avas going to 
take her to introduce her to his mother and 
family, he had one answer, “ To-morrer 
eveuen, p’raps.” 

But IS emesis, in shape of his brother Dick, 


440 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


was hard iii pursuit. More than once since 
the night when Jock had so vehemently 
denied that he was “ avter petticoats,” it had 
occurred to Dick that, though improhable, 
it was possible “ pore Jock might be tryen 
his hand,” and the very thought of it stirred 
him to riotous mirth. One evening a heavy 
shower spoiled cricket practice, and Dick, 
having nothing better to do, stealthily 
followed his brother, and concealed behind 
the hedges saw enough to send him home 
roaring with laughter. 

The next evening he spied again, and saw 
more tender passages, and then, with his 
plan of campaign settled, went home. Jock 
came in about nine, bnt Master Dick 
restrained himself until supper was nearly 
over. Then, looking across the table at 
Jock, and examining him critically, he said, 
“Zims to I, mother, our Jock be coorten, 
avter all. Zims he have the look about en ov a 
bwoy Avho be after a maid. Don’t he now ? ” 

“Do ’ee be quiet,” began Mrs. Jesty ; 
but Jock, flushing painfully, lost his self- 
control again. “ I baint coorten, I baint,” 
he cried. “ Don’t ’ee tell no lies, I baint 
coorten. Thee be quiet, or I’ll make ’ee.” 

“Don’t ’ee mind en, Jock, my bwoy,” 
said Mrs. Jesty soothingly, eyeing her 
second son with stern disapproval. 

“ I must be mistaken, then ; but it don’t 
matter,” said Dick demurely. “ Bnt, do ’ee 
zee, mother, why I mentioned it, I thought 
it must be time vor pore Jock to begin, as I 
have picked np with a maid. Coorten be 
vine vun when she be a pretty maid. She 
kisses I, and I kisses she, and I don’t know 
which be nicest.” 

The smith, in spite of himself, laughed 
aloud, and a glimmer passed over Mrs. 
Jesty’s features. 

“ Thee ? ” she said scornfully. “ Don’t let 
I hear any mwore such nonsense vrom a 
child like thee, or I’ll smack ’ee. What be 
the world conien to ? Iv I zee ’ee with a 
maid. I’ll box the ears ov both ov ’ee, I can 
tell ’ee, my gentleman.” 

“ Oh, but,” went on Dick, eyeing his 
brother out of the corner of his eye, “ she be 
a clever and a pretty maid, too, mother—a 
reel good zort. Iv I didn’ gwo coorten she, 
now, zomebody else ’onld pick up with her. 
She be zo vond of I, you wouldn’ believe. 
Jock’ll never get a maid like mine. Can I 
bring her hwome to tea Zunday ? ” 

“ You just dare to bring a maid here, and 
I’ll let ’ee know. Who be it ? ” 

“ Now, don’t ’ee get angry, mother. I be 


gwain to tell ’ee. It be thik maid up at the 
Hall, Lucy Thatcher. Baint Lucy a 
pretty-? ” 

It was because Dick had been keeping an 
eye on his brother that he escaped. In a 
mad burst of fury, and with an inarticulate 
cry, Jock sprang up, knocking his milk- 
bowl and plate on the floor, and aimed a 
terrific blow at his brother, who only just 
managed to duck in time. “ I’ll kill ’ee,’ 
he cried, and he sprang towards Dick, who 
slipped nimbly to the door, but was restrained 
by his mother, who clung tightly to him. 
Mrs. Jesty was thoroughly alarmed, though 
she could see no adequate cause for the 
outbreak. 

“ My dear,” she cried, “ whatever be the 
matter ? ” 

“ What have I done ? ” asked the innocent 
Dick, who was enjoying himself far better 
than he had expected. “ I zaid no then to 
thee.” 

“ She baint his maid, she baint, she baint,” 
cried Jock, almost sobbing in his passion, 
“ she baint his maid. I’ll kill en, I will. She 
baint.” 

“ Well, what do it matter to thee ? ” 
asked Dick. “ Can’t a veller gwo coorten 
without-” 

“ He be a liar ; she baint his maid. She 
have promised to marry I. She be mine. 
You ask she,” and Jock flopped on a chair 
and burst into tears. 

“ Well, ov all I ever did hear,” said Dick, 
in a very shocked tone. “ Why, he zaid a 
minute ago as he baint coorten, and then he 
zays he have got a maid. It be reel naughty 
to tell fibs, baint it, mother ? ” 

Mrs. Jesty began to see a little daylight 
at last. “ There, my bwoy, tell thee poor 
mother all about it,” she said, putting her 
arm round Jock’s neck. The smith, with a 
gesture, intimated to Dick that he had better 
leave the room. He obeyed with alacrity, 
and in the garden laughed his mirth out to 
the stars. 

Jock, by dint of much coaxing, was at 
last prevailed upon to tell the story. “ I shall 
ask she here to tea, Zunday,” said Mrs. Jesty, 
and Jock only faintly demurred. “ But thee 
should have told pore wold mother, my 
bwoy, vor I shall make she very welcome.” 

Lucy came, and, supported by his father 
and mother, Jock accompanied her through 
the village. 

Some months ago Jock paid over the sum 
of one shilling to WiUiam James Thomas 
Yetman. 




THE L.S.D. OF LITERARY SHRINES. 

By Harry Golding.* 


A n audited balance-sheet is commonly 
supposed to give a man as clear an 
insight into the state of his affairs as 
it is possible to have. Yet some of his most 
valuable assets are of necessity excluded, 
because they simply cannot be expressed in 
terms of £ s. d. No one with any experience 
of affairs doubts that luck counts for much 
in this world, though some of us prefer to 
call it by other names ; yet how is luck to be 
valued ? Education, experience, influence, 
health, are all of vital importance in a man’s 
career, yet at what time of his life can he 


to give us a nineteenth century set of 
Canterbury Tales, he would not tell of a 
motley crowd collecting in the courtyard of 
the Tabard Inn in Southwark ; or of knight 
and lady, cleric and mechanic, setting merrily 
forth for the shrine of St. Thomas at Canter¬ 
bury, beguiling each other by the way with 
songs and jests and racy stories. Instead of 
“ mine host ” we should have a threatening 
cabby, or a perspiring porter with palm 
extended; the picturesque Tabard would 
give place to the majestic outlines of a 
modern terminus ; the three or four days’ 



Photo by D. McNeille,'] 


iStra tford-upon-Avon. 


STRATFORD-UPON-AVON, 


say exactly how much his share of each is 
Avorth to him ? 

This mild moralising is evoked by an 
attempt recently made—not very successfully 
—to get at the actual value of literary asso¬ 
ciations to a place. That the sentimental 
value is considerable cannot be denied, and 
few people will dispute that there is also a 
monetary value, but the facts are not 
easily reduced to plain figures. 

Were a new Chaucer to arise in our midst 


* Copyright, 1899, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 


journey Avould be a matter of about half that 
number of hours; and the pilgrims, instead 
of entertaining one another, AA’ould be buried 
behind newspapers, or glancing Avith ill- 
concealed distrust at the other occupants of 
the carriage. But, thanks to the German 
Emperor, amongst others, pilgrimages, 
hoAveyer changed in character, are as 
prominent a feature of our own day as of 
the fourteenth century, and the modern 
Chaucer would not lack material. We have 
in this country no Jerusalem, or Lourdes, 
or Mecca, but we haA^e a Stratford, an 
Abbotsford, a land of Hardy and a land of 

2 H 










442 


77/A’ WlNDSOll MAGAZINE. 


“Lormi Dooiie,” and the pilgrims tliitlier 
may be counted by their tens of thousands. 
If we no longer worship dead men’s bones, 
we have an immense respect for them ; and 
it is open to question whether a popular 
author cannot serve the place of his adoption 
far better by dying for it than by living in 
it or writing of it. We have too few front 
rank novelists just now, and their wholesale 
extinction, even if voluntary, would be a 
national misfortune, but there would un¬ 
doubtedly be local compensations. Patriotic 
geniuses will perhaps think the matter over. 

Shakespeare makes Mark Antony say— 

The evil tliat men do lives after Uiem ; 

The good is oft interred with their bones ; 

but the poet himself supplies a contradiction. 


where in the winter months the curfew still 
“ tolls the knell of parting day.” But, as 
Washington Irving has said, ‘‘ the mind 
refuses to dwell on anything that is not con¬ 
nected with Shakespeare . . . the whole 
place seems but as his mausoleum.” Pigs 
and corn and cattle are sold on market days 
just as if the spot were not hallowed ground ; 
but Stratford does not live on its agricultural 
transactions. A “Mop Fair” is held annually 
ill October, and excursionists come in their 
thousands, but Stratford would be badly ofP 
if it depended wliolly upon that event. 
Brutally speaking, Stratford-upon-Avon lives 
in the main on William Shakespeare, obiit in 
the year of our Lord one thousand six hun¬ 
dred and sixteen. That this is so is by no 



Photo by D. McAeille,'] 


ANN HATHAWAY’S COTTAGE. 


The evil that he did—was it poaching, or 
the trouble with Ann Hathaway ?—emphati¬ 
cally does not live after him, and much of 
the good does. “ Shakespeare,” said a too 
candid newspaper writer recently, “is a 
thoroughly good asset, and Stratford runs 
him for all he is worth.” Now, it may seem 
a most undignified proceeding, and we 
tremble at the seeming impertinence, but 
curiosity, prompts us to ask —what is the cash 
value of Shakespeare to the charming War¬ 
wickshire town which contains at once his 
birthplace and his tomb ? Stratford is 
interesting in itself as a quaint old market 
town, where the crier may yet be heard, and 


means to be deplored either by Stratfordians 
or their visitors, for the circumstance affords 
highly satisfactory evidence of the existence, 
both in this country and abroad, of large 
numbers of people who are warmly interested 
in the life and work of our great national 
poet. As is well known, the principal places in 
and around Stratford associated with Shake¬ 
speare are in the hands of a public-spirited 
body known as the Birthplace Trustees. 
But for their exertions, and the work of a 
long line of predecessors—notably David 
Garrick — Stratford might to-day have 
possessed no vestige at all of Shakespeare. 
It will be remembered that some years ago 













THE L. S. D. OF LITERARY SHRINES. 


443 



Photo by I). McXeille,'] \_Stratford-upon-AvoT}. 

ROOM IN WHICH SHAKKSrKAHH WAS BORN. 


a syndicate of too eiitlinsiastic 
Americans almost succeeded in 
purchasing the Birthplace' with the 
intention of transporting it bodily 
to the States! It is doubtful 
whether even Shakespeare's bones 
would have been suffered to 
remain but for the famous in¬ 
scription— 

(joocl frcrid, for lesvs sake forbeare 

To clipfg the dvst encloased heare: 

lilese be y° man yt spares tlics stones. 

And cvrst be he yt moves my bones.” 

From a recent report of the 
Trustees we gather some curious, 
interesting, and suggestive facts. 

It appears that in tweh'e months 
the total number of visitors to 
the Birthplace was 2(>,510. An 

admission fee of sixpence a head 
is charged, which yields the re¬ 
spectable sum of £662 155. But 
this fee only entitles one to see 
the room in which Shakespeare was born, 
almost every inch of which is iioav scrawled 
over with the signatures of more or less 
famous men—mostly less; to inspect the 
room at the back, where a portrait of the 
poet is religiously screened ; and to pass 
through the quaint old kitchen, with its 
open fireplace, where the poet may or may 
not have baked his chestnuts in the days of 
youth. To see the adjoining museum, with 


its many interesting curios, another sixpence 
has to be paid, and we find that about two- 
thirds of those visiting the Birthplace, or, to 
be exact, 16,539, also visited the museum. 
This gives us an additional £413 9s. 

An analysis of tlie signatures in the visitors’ 
book shows ho^v world-wide is the interest 
in Shakespeare. Upwards of 7,000 persons 
naughtily dodged the ordeal of signing their 
names ; but of the rest no less than 4,516 



Photo by F. Frith tfc Co.,] [Keigate. 

KKNIIAVORTH CASTLE. 


















444 


THI^] WINDSOR MAGAZINR. 


hailed from x\merica, England and Wales 
sent 12,979, Scotland 849, and Ireland only 
a paltry 194. Scottish pilgrims evidently 
reserve their energy for Ayr and Abbotsford, 
and one would be glad to think that Irislimen 
give to Thomas Moore the devotion tliat 
otherwise would have been expended on 
Shakespeare, but we have the best of reasons 
for knowing that they do not. Of pilgrims 
from other parts Africa sent 97, Australia ISO, 
Austria 10, Armenia 8, Bavaria 8, Belgium 
12, Canada 206, Ceylon 18, Channel Islands 
41, China 1, Denmark 11, Egypt 2, France 
77, Finland 8, Germany 118, Hanover 7, 
Hawaii 8, Holland 9, Hungary 2, India 4i), 
Italy 12, Jamaica 5, Japan 8, JMadagascar 2, 


of the church ; but reckoning only the 
admission fees at sixpence a head we get the 
sum of £575. Within sight of the church, 
and also on the banks of the x\von, stands the 
Shakespeare Memorial, a building which has 
been much criticised on account of its 
apparent incongruity, but for which all 
lovers of Shakespeare liave cause to be 
devoutly thankful. It was in great part the 
gift of the late Mr. Charles E. Flower, who 
contributed no less tlian £25,000 to its cost. 
Here is a most valuable Shakespearian 
library, readily accessible to students, and a 
gallery of pictures collected from all quarters 
of the globe, and including works by such 
artists as Lawrence, Komney, and Millais. 



Photo tnj VaUntiiie <0 aSo;?.*?,] 


kllkn’s isIaK,” loch katiunk. 


New Zealand 64, Newfound land 7, Norway 
7, Poland 8, Portugal 3, Prussia 7, Russia 
10, St. Helena 2, Saxony 1, Spain 11, 
Sweden 6, Switzerland 16, Tasmania 5, 
Turkey in Europe 4, West Indies 12. 

Next in importance to the Birthplace is 
the beautifully situated church of the Holy 
Trinity, l)eneath the chancel of Avhich 
Shakespeare is buried. The church is, of 
course, under the care of the Yicar, an 
enthusiastic Shakespearian, and the figures 
are not included in the Trustees’ report. 
But a relial)le estimate gives the number of 
annual ^'isitors, apart from ordinary wor¬ 
shippers, as 28,000. A great number of 
these no doubt respond to the Yicar’s appeal 
for help in the restoration and beautification 


Another part of the building is used as a 
theatre, Avhere important performances of 
Shakespeare’s plays are gi\'en from time to 
time — notably at the annual fortnight’s 
festival every April, which the artistic enthu¬ 
siasm of Mr. F. R. Benson, the well-known 
Shakespearian actor, has made a landmark in 
the playgoers’ year. Now, it is somewhat 
curious to notice that of the 26,000 odd 
persons visiting the Birthplace only 18,085, 
or less than half, took the trouble to visit 
the Memorial. The fact is to be regretted, 
though it hardly concerns us here. 18,085 
at sixpence brings us in another £827 2.s*. M. 
The house. New Place, to which Shakespeare 
retired when fortune had smiled upon him, 
was razed to the ground in 1759 by the 




THE L. S. D. OF LITERARY SHRINES. 


445 




Rev. Francis Gastrell, because he 
considered the assessment on it 
excessive, and to-daj only the 
carefully preserved foundations can 
be seen. This pro])ably accounts 
for the fact that not more than 
474 persons paid for admission, 
though the fee of sixpence in¬ 
cludes admission to the adjoining 
museum, Nash’s House, where a 
number of curios illustrating the 
customs and manners of the se\'en- 
teenth century arc to be seen. 

New Place, therefore, contributes 
only the insignificant sum of 
£11 17.S*. Ann Hathaway’s cot¬ 
tage at Shottery, Avhere the })oet 
went a-wooing, is about a mile 
from the town, and is readied by 
a pleasant footpath. The cottage 
was recently purcliased by the 
Birthplace Trustees for £8,000, 
and their report gives the number of visitors 
as 10,^89, which at sixpence each yields 
£262 As. 6d. 

Totalling the amounts, we arrive at the 
following result, the admission fee in each 
case being sixpence — 

Birthplace, 20,510.£662 15 0 

,, jMuseiini, Hi,560 ... 416 0 6 

Trinity Church, 26,000 575 0 0 

IMeinorial, 16,085 . 627 2 6 

Ann Hathaway’s Cottage, 10. is'.i 262 4 6 

New Place, 474 ... ... ... ll 17 0 

£2,252 8 6 

Stratford, therefore, deri\’cs an annual 
income from admission fees alone of con¬ 
siderably me e than £2,000. It will at once 


Photo by Valentine A Som^,"] 

wouD.swonrii's ou.vs.mkkk. 


[Dundee. 


Photo by Valentine A 

DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE. 


be pointed out that from tliis sum custodians 
have to be paid, fabrics maintained and 
repaired, and that tlie disposal of surplus 
funds is, in the case of tlie Birthplace 
Trustees, strictly regulated hj the Act of 
Parliament of 1891. This is perfectly true, 
and I should be sorry to be numbered with 
those who complain of paying a paltry half- 
crown or three sliillings for the privilege of 
seeing so many lulceless relics. The point, 
however, is that this amount of money is 
left in Stratford every year by visitors. But 
in this case, as in others mentioned in this 
article, admission fees, being ascertainable, 
are taken merely as affording a clue to larger 
sums which are not ascertainable and can 
only be roughly guessed at. Apart 
from the financial aspect of the 
(piestion, such figures liave also a 
distinct value as showing the rela¬ 
tive interest taken by succeeding 
generations in the departed leaders 
of literature. At Stratford we are 
only at the commencement of the 
calculation. Fees paid for admission 
form a very small proportion of 
the pilgrim’s expenses. There is the 
(piestion of living. The majority 
of visitors, it is true, do not stay in 
Stratford more than a night or two 
—many are day trippers and do 
not stay at all But from the 
circumstance that at least half a 
dozen first class hotels and a large 
number of boarding-houses manage 
[Dundee. to flourisli ill wliat, after all, is but 
a small country town, it may be 
























THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


UG 



Photo hy Valentine cfc <S'on.9,] [Dundee. 

byuon’s oak. 


concluded that a goodly sum can be allowed 
under this head. Then there is the impor¬ 
tant item of souvenirs. What of a “ rubbing 
from the tomb of Shakespeare ” for a 
shilling ? Ol’ a copy of the records of the 
poet’s birth and baptism in return for a, 
subscription to the church restoration fund ? 

I am not aware how many of tliese precious 
productions are disposed of, but the majority 
of visitors from the States certainly invest. 
Then there are busts of Shakespeare ad lib., 
at prices ranging from sixpence to half-a- 
guinea. Photographs also sell largely, and 
popular subjects such as Ann Hathaway’s 
cottage are disposed of in hundreds. One 
firm alone sends out 2,000 prints of this 
view yearly, mounted and unmounted, though 
of course many are sold at places other than 
Stratford. Guide books, at prices from a 
penny to seven shillings and sixpence, find a 
ready sale, judging by the constant additions 
to their number. Altogether we are probably 
within the mark in estimating the sum spent 
by pilgrims to the shrine of Shakespeare, 
including the largely attended April celebra¬ 
tions, at something like £10,000 a year, 
exclusive of railway fares. It should be 
remembered, too, that Stratford is indebted 
to its connection with Shakespeare for many 
princely gifts, notably the Memorial, the 
Child’s Ponntain, and the American window 
in Trinity Church. 

We have pursued the inquiry as to Strat¬ 
ford somewhat exhaustively so that one 
example may serve for many others. Strat- 
foi’d is by no means the only place, even in 
Warwickshire, which owes its prosperity to 
its literary associations. Less than a dozen 


miles away stands the hoary ruin 
of Kenilworth Castle, which I have 
discovered to my surprise to be 
visited by even more people than 
the birthplace of Shakespeare. 
From information kindly supplied 
by the Earl of Clarendon’s solici¬ 
tors it appears that 30,000 persons 
annually pay the necessary sixpence 
for the privilege of inspecting this 
noble ruin, hallowed for ever by 
the genius of Sir Walter Scott, 
though it deserves to be remem¬ 
bered also for its connection with 
the heroic Simon de Montfort, to 
whom we are so largely indebted 
for representative government. It 
is a shame to spoil a good story, 
especially when told by the magic 
pen of the ‘‘ Wizard of the Korth,” 
but it has been proved indisputably 
that Amy Eobsart had been dead nearly 
fifteen years when the famous Kenilworth 
festivities in Elizabeth’s honour took place. 
That fact, however, detracts but little from 
the interest of the Castle. To the £750 
expended in admission fees must be added 
payments for refreshment, photographs and 
souvenirs, and in many cases carriage hire. 
The straggling town of Kenilworth is by no 
means pretentious, but its hotels would do 
credit to a stylish seaside resort, so that the 
crumbling Castle would seem to be an asset 
of no slight value. 

What has happened at Kenilworth has 
happened in far greater degree in the High¬ 
lands of Scotland. That delightful region 
of mountain and moorland could not have 
failed, sooner or later, to become a great 
popular playground; but it was the author of 
“ Waverley” and “The Lady of the Lake” who 
first breathed over it the spirit of romance 
and poetry and dowered it with charms to 
lure the moneyed traveller thitlier. But for 
Scott it is possible that we might, until a 
quite recent period, have viewed the moun¬ 
tains with awe and described them as “horrid 
and inhospitable,” like those eighteenth- 
century travellers referred to by Macaulay. 
“ In the south of our island,” says the 
eloquent historian, “scarcely anything was 
known about the Celtic part of Scotland, and 
what was known excited no feeling but one 
of contempt and loathing. The Trossachs 
wound, as now, between gigantic walls of 
rock tapestried with broom and wild roses ; 
Foyers came headlong down through the 
birchwood with the same leap and the same 
roar with which he still rushes to Loch Xess : 



THE L. S. JJ, OF LITERARY SHRINES. 


447 




and, ill defiance of the sun of June, the 
snowy scalps of Ben Cruachan rose, as they 
still rise, over the willowy islets of Loch 
Awe; and yet none of these sights had 
power till a recent period to attract a single 
poet or painter from more opulent and more 
tranquil regions.” It is manifestly impossible 
to set down in plain figures how much Scott 
is worth to the Highlands, but what would 
not the gallant Principality, or even the 
Emerald Isle, give to possess another like 
him ? 

But, apart from the Highlands, there is 
what is known as the “ land of Scott ”— 
Abbotsford, Dryburgh, and the many scenes 
associated rather with, the novelist himself 
than with his works. Visitors to Dryburgh 
Abbey, where Scott is buried, vary greatly in 
number, and I have been unable to obtain 
definite information; but the 
numbers are, without doubt, con- 
desirable. The owner has recently 
given notice that the charge for 
admission is in future to be one 
shilling each person, instead of 
sixpence. Whether that fact in¬ 
dicates that the business has 
hitherto been conducted at a loss, 
or that the British toui’ist is con¬ 
sidered capable of a little more 
squeezing, one would rather not 
say. 

The ‘‘ land of Burns ” is in its 
way as remarkable an instance of 
the value of literary associations 
as Stratford-upon-Avon. As a 
tourist resort pure and simple it 
is to be feared that Ayrshire 
would fare somewhat badly. Yet 
in summer, Ayr, Manchline, Tar- 
bolton, and other places connected 
with the poet, are croAvded Avith 
visitors. It cannot be doubted 
that the hotel proprietors, railAA^ay 
companies, and others, derive no 
inconsiderable quantity of ‘‘siller” 
directly or indirectly from the 
Burns cult. The “ Scots Avha hae 
for Burns been bled ” must be a 
far greater host than ever suffered 
with Wallace. In 1881 the Burns 
Cottage and about seven acres 
were purchased by the Monument 
Trustees for £4,000. A. charge 
of 2d, is made for admission. In 
the year ending September, 1898, 
the number of visitors Avas 30,500, 
only some 1.700 short of the 
number in 1890, the centenary 


of the poet’s death. The numbei’s visiting 
the monument at Alloway were even greater, 
amounting to 49,589. For years past the 
annual total has alAA^ays been Avell above 
40,000. In July, 1898, there AA^ere no less 
than 2,558 in one day ! The figures are 
themselves so eloquent that comment AA'ould 
be superfluous. 

The English Lake District presents in 
many respects a case analogous to that of the 
Highlands. Cray, of “Elegy” fame, Avas 
proliably the first to make Avidely knoAvn the 
tender beauties of Westmorland and Cum¬ 
berland ; and though to-day the attractions 
of the Lake District to the ordinary tourist 
are mainly scenic, it cannot be doubted that 
many people are lured thither by those 
“ Literary Associations of the English 
Lakes ” Avdiich Canon PaAvnsley has so ably 


Photo hy Valentine (t* iS9?7.9,] 

TI1I<: Cr.OISTKRS, NKWSTKAD. 


[Dundee. 


Photo by Valentine d- Fsons,"] 


[Dundee. 


BYRON S BEDROOM. 








448 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 



described in Ids well-known volumes. 
Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, “Christo¬ 
pher North,” De Quincey, and later, Mrs. 
Hemans, Harriet Martineau, Dr. Arnold, and 
John Ituskin, each and all contributed to 
give the Lake District a twofold interest 
in the eyes of cultured sightseers. Few 
people find themselves near Grasmere with¬ 
out being magnetically drawn to the quiet 
churchyard where Wordsworth sleeps. It 


Photo by'] 


OARE CHURCH. 

Carver Doone fired through the middle windoiu. 


will be remembered that he has himself 
described the church— 

Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 

But laru;G and massy; for duration built: 

With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
• By naked rafters intricately crossed. 

No account is kept of the numbers who visit 
the church ; but Dove Cottage, Wordsworth’s 
home at Grasmere from 1799 to 1808—and 
subsequently De Quincey’s—is under the 
care of a committee, a charge of sixpence 
being made for admission. By the courtesy 
of Professor Armstrong, I have learnt that for 
the year from May, 1896, to May, 1897, the 
visitors numbered about 2,000, and for the 
corresponding period in 1897-8, 2,500. One 
would have expected tlie numbers to be 
greater ; but it must be borne in mind that 


large parties are admitted at times for an 
inclusive sum, and thus all the members are 
not counted. Perhaps, too, there is some 
justice in Mr. Clement Shorter’s recent com¬ 
plaint that the Cottage has been robbed of 
much of its primitive simplicity. 

The mention of Mr. Shorter’s name recalls 
the fact that in the adjoining county of 
Yorkshire is a humble parish chiefly known 
to fame on account of its association with 
Charlotte Bronte and her talented 
sisters. A Bronte Museum was 
recently established at Haworth 
and is visited by about 5,000 per¬ 
sons annually. The charge for 
admission is threepence only, so 
that the sum raised can hardly 
suffice to pay for the services of 
the curator. Keaders will remem¬ 
ber the scene in Mrs. Humphry 
Ward’s “ David Grieve,” when 
young David finds himself at 
Haworth— 

“ Does foak coom for t’suninier ? ” asked 
David, liftini^ his eyebrows a little and 
looking round on the bleak and straggling 
village. 

“Noa, they cooin to see the church. 
Lor’ bless ye ! ’taint becos the church is 
anything much to look at! ’Taint nowt 
out o’ t’common that I knows on. Noa— 
biit they coom along o’ t’lnonument, an’ 
IMiss Bronte.” 

There was no light of understanding in 
David’s face, but his eyes seemed to invite 
her to go on. 

“You niver heerd on our Miss Bronte?” 
said the woman mildly. “ Well, I s’pose 
not. She was just a bit quiet body. 
Nobbody liereabouts saw mich in her. But 
she wrote bukes—tales, yo know—tales 
about t’foak roun’ here; an’ they do say, 
?. Combes. them as has read ’em, ’at the’rc terr’ble 
good. She’s terr’ble famous is Miss Bronte, 
now—an’ her sisters, too, pore young Avomen. 
Yo should see t’visitors’ book in the church. 
Aw t’grand foak as iver wor. They cooms 
fro’ Lunnon a-purpose, soom on ’em, an’ they just takes 
a look roun t’place, an’ Avrites their names, an’ goes 
aAvay.” 

One of fclie most popular sliowplaces in the 
Midlands is Lord Byron’s ancestral home 
near Nottingham. Here may be seen the 
poet’s bed, his library, an oak tree he planted, 
and the curious monument beneath which 
his faithful dog “Boatswain” is buried. 
Newstead Abbey is shown to the public twice 
a week, but no account of numbers is kept. 
As regards Hucknall Torkard Church, which 
contains the tomb of Byron, the Yicar es¬ 
timates the number of visitors at about forty 
a week in summer, and perhaps half that 
number in winter. This would give from 
1,500 to 2,000 a year. 

The question as to the actual situation of 





THE L. S. D. OF LITERARY RHRIHEE. 




Photo by Valentine & Sons,'] 

KINGSLEY’S ROOM AT ROYAL HOTEL, 


RIDEFORD. 


Bleak House lias been liotly debated by lovers 
of Dickens. The energetic and far-sighted 
Kector of Broadstairs has treated the matter 
as admitting of no doubt, and by the Dickens 
Fetes held so successfully during the last 
year or two has drawn all eyes to the 
curiously shuttered, happily-placed mansion 
which dominates the sea-front of that 
delightful resort. In these days of com¬ 
petition amongst watering-places, advertise¬ 
ment is as breath to their nostrils, if the 
figure may be used in connection with such 
highly sanitary, clean-swabbed abodes of 
mankind. Now, there can be no doubt that 
the ]Iickens Fetes have been a huge adver¬ 
tisement for Broadstairs—indeed, 
people are beginning to complain 
that it will soon be as overrun as 
its popular neighbours, Margate 
and Bamsgate. At the 1897 Fete 
there were no less than 5,000 
visitors in the three days, and in 
addition to the admission fee most 
people patronised some of the “ side 
shows,” and purchased refresh¬ 
ments and various articles of wfiiat 
Mr. AYemmick W'ould call ‘‘ portable 
property.” The “washing com¬ 
petition,” entrance fee sixpence, 
seems to have attracted a good 
number, though Englishmen are 
notoriously not good at this kind 
of thing; and the “ Boom of 
Mediaeval Tortures ” found many 
admirers at twopence, though few 
seem to have availed themselves 
of the invitation to “personally 


try the tortures for the modest sum 
of five shillings,” in spite of the 
fact that specially reduced terms 
for mothers-in-law were offered to 
harassed husbands. The 1898 
celebration was not nearly so 
successful, on account of unpro- 
]htious weather. It is clear, how¬ 
ever, that Broadstairs has every 
reason to regard Bleak House as a 
valuable asset. How many visitors, 
too, are lured to Bochester from 
its connection with Dickens ? 

North Devon is another con¬ 
spicuous instance of the value of 
literary associations. The “Combes 
of the West” would never have 
lacked admirers, but it can safely 
be said that the halo of romance 
thrown over the district by Kings¬ 
ley’s “ AYestward Ho ! ” Black- 
more’s “Lorna Doone,” Whyte- 
Alelville’s “ Katerfelto,” and more recently 
by Marie Corelli’s “ Mighty Atom,” has 
immensely augmented its popularity amongst 
holiday-makers. Bideford is the centre 
of the “ AA^estward Ho! ” country, and 
the proprietor of the Boyal Hotel points with 
justifiable pride to the fine oak room, with 
its handsome scroll-work ceiling, in which 
the novelist-divine wrote much of his book. 
“ Kingsley’s Boom,” as it is called, is visited 
by several thousand persons in the course of 
a year. It is estimated that the number of 
visitors staying at Bideford and AA^estward 
Ho ! is about 20,000 each season. Between 
nine and ten thousand persons go to Clovelly 


\_lhindee. 


Photo by Valentine <0 


[Dundee. 


BLEAK HOUSE, BROADSTAIRS. 








450 


77//; WINDSOR M AG AZIN R 


from Bideford by brakes and coaches, and 
there are two or three steamers daily to the 
same spot from Ilfracombe, each with a load 
of five or six hundred. The neighbouring 
land of ‘‘Lorna Dooiie” has not hitherto 
been visited to quite the same extent ; but 
now that the railway has penetrated to 
Lynton, we may confidently expect a large 
increase in the number of visitors to the 
somewhat disappointing Doone Glen and 
the other spots made famous by one of the 
most delightful romances of the century. 
Of Whyte - Melville’s “ Katerfelto,” with 
its breezy description of a stag-lmnt on 
Exmoor, many thousands have been sold, 
and the publishers have recently brought 
out an entirely new edition, with illustrations 
by Lucy E. Kemp-Welch*. 

Two facts of interest relating to London 
were elicited in the course of our inquiries- 
one that the total number of visitors to 
Carlyle’s House, Chelsea, with its “ sublime 
garret,” has been little more than 10,000 
since its establishment as a museum in July, 


1895 ; the other that tlie nuniber visiting 
St. Giles’, Cripplegate, where Milton was 
buried, is about 90 per day. 

This inquiry could be extended in¬ 
definitely, and numberless instances given of 
places which have been to a great extent 
‘‘made” by the pen. One might speak of 
the greatly increased popularity of the district 
of GalloAvay—a hitherto neglected touring 
ground — since tlie publication of Mr. 
Crockett’s novels. Reference could be made 
to Elstow, in Bedfordshire, where the 
“ divine tinker ” wrote and laboured ; to 
Gluey, the quiet retreat of Cowper; to 
Arbury, Nuneaton, and the George Eliot 
country; to Thomas Hardy’s “Wessex”; 
to Hall Caine’s “little ]\[anx Island,” familiar¬ 
ised to readers of tlie Windsor by the 
opening chapters of “ The Christian ” and 
other works ; to Somersby, in Lincolnshire, 
where Tennyson was born, and to Fresh¬ 
water, in the Isle of Wight, where he lived 
so long ; but this article has already exceeded 
its proper limits. 

























JSac) ‘IRc\V6. 

By Florence M. Gill. 







THE AMBASSADOR’S DILEMMA. 



Bv E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.» 


Illustrated by J. Finnemore, 


Am b a s s ad 0 r 
looked at me 
,, and I looked at 
tlie Ambassador. 
It was not by 
any means the 
first pause in 
an exceedingly 
awkward con¬ 
versation. 

“ Yon see,” 
he remarked 
suavely, ‘‘ yon 
also are con¬ 
cerned in this 
affair. I am 
glad to observe 
that you contrive to retain your cheerful¬ 
ness, but I am bound to point out the fact 
that—diplomatically, at any rate—yon are in 
a parlous state.” 

I assumed as lugubrious an expression as 
possible and ventured to contest his point of 
view. 

“ I don’t exactly see-” I began, but he 

stopped me. 

“ Perhaps not. I will explain. If I am 
—what shall we say ?—^removed, my First 
Secretary will certainly go with me. He is 
supposed to be equally to blame when any¬ 
thing goes wrong; he shares the reward 
when a small triumph is gained. Now, you 
are my First Secretary, Hamblin, and we 
are in no end of a mess; in your own 
interests I should recommend you to bestir 
yourself.” 

I drew a little breath. If I had not been 
in a way attached to my chief, I should 
certainly have used it for a different purpose. 
As Sir George had remarked, we were 
certainly in no end of a mess, but it was he 
himself and alone who had landed us there. 

“ If you could suggest any way, sir, in 
which I could be of the sliglitest use,” I le- 
marked deprecatingly, “ nothing would give 
me more pleasure. Unfortunately, we seem 


* Copyright, 1900, by AVard, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 


sitting 


down before a great wall; 
Ii to climb, and there’s no way 


to be 
it’s too hq 
round.” 

“A very charming simile,” Sir George 
said dryly. “ Nevertheless, if you don’t get 
over, yourself, or help me to, you won’t marry 
my daughter.” 

I came to the conclusion promptly that 
Sir George was an unreasonable and dis- 
agreeable old man ; but I kept my conviction 
to myself. 

‘‘ I hope you will reconsider that, sir,” I 
said most respectfully. “ I am very fond of 
Clara, and I think she cares a little for me.” 

“Work for her, then,” was tlie prompt 
answer. “ Here’s your chance. Get us out 
of this wretched muddle, and you shall have 
her—as soon as she likes ! ” 

I pondered. I was very fond of Clara. I 
began to wish that the situation Avere not so 
hopeless. Sir George took up his penholder 
and marked time with it. 

“ The affair,” he said, “ lies in a nutshell; 
it is as simple as A B C.” 

“ Oh, it’s simple enough,” I assented— 
“ painfully simple ! ” 

“ England,” the Ambassador continued, 
ignoring my interruption, “ is at Avar Avith 
the Transvaal Republic. Last week there 
appeared in an issue of a foreign neAVspaper 
Avhat purports to be an intervieAV betAveen 
the monarch of this country and the European 
representative of the Transvaal Republic. 
The interview—or, let ns say, purported 
intervieAA"—you have read yourself. It is 
sufficient to remark that, if it Avas authentic, 
it Avas tantamount to a declaration of Avar 
against England. Noav, you knoAV Avhat an 
artful old beggar Highbury is ! He sends 
me across by Queen’s messenger tAVO sealed 
despatches for the Emperor, addressed to 
him privately. One is marked ‘ A,’ the 
other ‘ B.’ Noav, if the intervieAV had been 
genuine, I Avas to have dealt the first blow by 
presenting ‘ B,’ Avhich is tantamount to an 
ultimatum couched in most formal and Avar- 
like language. If, on the other hand, its 
authenticity is denied, I present ‘ A,’ which 
is a friendly little note assuring his Majesty 
452 








THE AMBASSADORS DILEMMA. 


458 


that no notice was taken in England of what 
was obviously a ridiculous canard. You 
know, of course, what has happened.” 

“The Emperor has denied the whole story 
contemptuously from beginning to end,” I 
remarked. “The Transvaal representative 
was never even accorded an interview.” 

Sir George flourished the penholder with 
new vigour. 

“Precisely. I accordingly left at the 
Palace the letter marked ‘ A,’ and, returning 
here, proceeded to open and destroy letter 
‘ B.’ I read it first, and to my horror found 
that its contents were as per specification of 
letter ‘ A,’ and that consequently the lettering 
must have been wrong, and the ultimatum 
left at the Palace.” 

“ I don’t quite see where we are to blame, 
you know,” I interposed. 

“ Perhaps not,” my chief remarked dryly. 
“ You see, you are very young. But there is 
an axiom in diplomacy which you will do 
well to lay to heart. If anything goes 
wrong at your charge, no matter who is to 
blame, you are responsible. Those letters 
have been changed by spies, most likely, and 
I think I know who is at the bottom of it. 


It was probably done while they were in the 
possession of the Queen’s messenger—he 
admits that he took no extra precautions. 
That is of no consequence. It is upon us 
that the blame will fall. There awaits for 
the Emperor a letter which Avill either plunge 
us into a ruinous, unnecessary, and unpopular 
war, or else will mean Highbury’s resignation, 
our retirement to a Colony, and a most awful 
climb-down.” 

“ The Emperor,” I remarked, “ is still at 
Meritzburg—manoeuvring ? ” 

“ Yes. He returns to-morrow. To¬ 
morrow night that letter will be handed to 
him.” 

“You’re sure it hasn’t been sent on to 
him ? ” 

“ Certain. I happen to know that liis 
commands were most absolute. Nothing 
was to be forwarded. Yon Butz has the 
letter, and knows its contents.” 

“ Sure of that ? ” I ventured. 

Sir George tossed an evening paper over 
to me. 

“You see what the beast is doing,” he 
said.^ “Strange rumours at the barracks, 
all-night work at the arsenals, mysterious 



••He groaned as he read it out.” 




454 


THE WINDSOli MAGAZTXE. 



notices to the railway coiiipanies. It all 
means one thing—mobilisation.” 

“Yon Blitz has read the letter by fair 
means or foul. The Emperor will receive 
it in person to-morrow night. The letter 
awaits him at Von Bntz’s house,” I remarked 
thoughtfully. 

“ Marvellous ! ” Sir George remarked with 
sarcasm. “ You have the insight of a 
Mazarin.” 

One must put up with sarcasm from 
one’s prospective father-in-law, especially 
when he is in as tight a place as Sir George 
undoubtedly' was. I had sufficient mag¬ 
nanimity to ignore it. 

“ Have you made any effort to regain 
possession of the letter ? ” I asked. 

Sir George shook his head. 

“ I might as well try to fly,” he said, “ as 
attempt to regain possession of it by fair 
means. Yon Butz is our enemy and the 
enemy of our country. All the ill-feeling 
and friction of the last few years has been 
his making and his alone. Tliis letter is the 
summit of his desires. In the light of the 
Emperor’s frank and downright statement, 
it is nothing more nor less than a brutal 


insult. 1 cannot imagine any apologies 
Avhich could possibly be offered sufficient to 
atone for it. It will mean war for England 
and the Colonies for us.” 

“ If the Emperor reads it,” I remarked 
softly. 

“If the Emperor reads it,” Sir George 
repeated, looking over at me. 

I buried iny face in my 1 lands and tried 
to think. There came a knock at the door 
and a telegraphic despatch. Sir George 
fetched out the code-book with shaking 
lingers. He groaned as he read it out. 

“ Understand mobilisation secietly com¬ 
menced. Panic on Stock Exchange owing 
to rumours from Badenberg. Presume you 
only delivered letter ‘A.’ YGiat does it 
mean ? Have you blundered ? Beply. 

“ Highbuky.” 


“ A¥e haven’t much time, have we ? ” I 
remarked. “ Let us make the most of it.” 

“ How ? ” 

I took up my pen and the code-book, and 
wrote a telegram. 


“ To Highbury, Downing St., London. 

“ Discredit all rumours. 
Mobilisation ridiculous. All 
quiet here. Duly delivered 
letter ‘A.’ Probably Stock 
Exchange rig. AYill request 
audience to-morrow.” 


“ AYe’ll start boldly, at 
any rate,” I said, rising. 
“ Send this, and I will be 
back in an hour.” 

“Where are you 
going?” Sir George 
asked. 

“ To call on Eraulein 
von Butz,” I ausAvered. 


YMuth is dauntless 
and excitement is 
SAveet. So I AA'alked 
through the broad, 
sunlit streets of 
Badenberg Avith a 
smiling face, a 
cigarette of delicate 
flavom’ between my 
lips, and tried to per¬ 
suade myself that it 
Avas not a forlorn 
hope upon Avhich I 
had embarked. In my 
pocket was letter ‘A,’ 


“ ‘ AV^ar between your country and mine ! It is fearful! ’ ” 



THE AM B AES ADORES DILEMMA. 


455 



whicli should lia\'o boon marked 
‘ B,’ ill my right hand a fragrant 
buncli of Neapolitan violets, 
whose faint, sweet perfume had 
stolen out to me from a florist’s 
shop in the Avenue. As I passed 
up the broad steps of the mansion 
where Von Bntz lived, the Fates 
did me a good turn. The door 
before me opened and Fraulein 
von Butz came out, dressed for 
driving. 

I bowed low and held out the 
flowers. 

“ A farewell gift, Fraulein,' 
said sadly. “ You will deign to 
accept them, I liope ! ” 

She held out her hands, and her 
bright smile of welcome changed 
to a look of interrogation. 

“ 1 will accept them,” she said, 

“ with very much pleasure, and I 
thank you indeed for thinking of 
me. But why a farewell gift, 

Mr. Hamblin ? Are you going 
away on leave again ? ” 

I shook my head sorrowfully. 

“ It is no matter of leave, dear 
Fraulein,” I said. “ I am quitting 
the Service. I should have left 
to-day, but I wanted to say good¬ 
bye to yon.” 

She turned back into the hall. 

“ Come inside,” she said. “ I do not 
understand.” 

I heard her instruct the hall-porter to 
send back the carriage. She led me into her 
own tiny sitting-room, as neat and dainty as 
herself, and motioned me to an easy-chair. 
She sat down close to me and loosened the 
furs from her neck. 

“You are giving up the Service,” she said, 
“you are leaving Badenbcrg ! Is it not very 
sudden, Mr. Hamblin ? ” 

“ It has come upon me,” I said gloomily, 
“ like a thunderclap.” 

“ You shall tell me,” she insisted, raising 
her bright eyes to mine, “ all about it. 
Have you come into the title, is your health 
bad, or are you promoted ? ” 

I was silent for a moment. It was silence 
which told. Then I shook my head. 

“ Fraulein,” I said, “ when I have gone 
you will hear from others what I would 
rather teU you myself. I have longed for 
this opportunity, yet now it has come—it is 
not easy ! ” 

Her piquant little face ' was full of sym¬ 
pathy. By accident my hand feU upon the 


arm of her chair and touched her fingers. 
She drew them away—slowly. 

“ Fraulein,” I said, “ there is one pro¬ 
fession in the world in which a single 
mistake is fatal. That profession unfortu¬ 
nately is, or was, mine—and that mistake—I 
have made.” 

“ Oh ! ” she cried. 

It was enough. My humiliation now 
required no pretence. It came natural to 
me. I felt that I was a cad. 

“Won’t you tell me a little more ? ” she 
begged. “ I am so very sorry for you—and 
sorry that you are going away.” 

Her hand once more fell upon the arm of 
her chair. Never were fingers more soft 
and velvety to the touch. 

“ Fraulein,” I said, “ if I may tell you, 1 
will. I should like you to know the truth. 
It is this. Two letters were entrusted to 
me, one of which was to be delivered to the 
Emperor, the other destroyed. I delivered— 
to your father, as it happens—the wrong one.” 

She was perplexed. 

“ Is that all ? ” she asked. 

I nodded. 

“ The action,” I said, “ is a small one— 
but the result is terrible.” 



450 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


“ Terrible ? 

“ It is too weak a word,” I assented. “ Do 
you know what war means, Frilulein ? ” 

She shuddered. 

“ Do not speak of it! ” she begged. 

“ You will hear it spoken of before long, 
Fraulein,” I said ; “ and, alas ! I shall be the 
unhappy cause. War between your country 
and mine ! It is fearful! ” 

I am afraid my fingers tightened upon 
hers. I am sure that the pressure was 
returned. 

“ The letter you spoke of,” she asked— 
has the Emperor received it yet ? ” 

“ Not yet,” I answered ; “ your father has 
it. The Emperor returns to-morrow night.” 
She leaned forward, suddenly pale. 

“ He returns to-night ! ” she exclaimed. 
“Only an hour ago my father had a telegram 
from him.” 

“ To-night or to-morrow night,” I mut¬ 
tered—“ what matters ? The letter has gone 
from my hands beyond recovery ; he opens 
it, reads, and war is as certain as to-morrow’s 
sun. Oh, it is enough to make a man mad 
to think of it ! War between the two 
nations who have brought the science of 
killing to perfection ! It will be the greatest 
massacre the Avorld has ever known, and the 
everlasting shame of it Avill be upon my head.” 
“ Don’t,” she cried—“ please don’t ! ” 

I drew myself up. 

“ At least, Fraulein,” I said gently and 
with real tenderness, “ I have no right to 
come here and make you miserable. Only I 
could not go away without seeing you and 
asking you to sometimes remember—a most 
unfortunate man ! ” 

I stretched out my hand for my hat. She 
stopped me. 

“ No, no,” she cried ; “ sit still! Let me 
think.” 

I watched the colour come and go from 
her cheeks. She pushed back the pretty 
fringe from her forehead. Ah, Gertrud von 
Butz, you wrote the memory of your dainty 
little self into my heart for ever in those few 
minutes ! 

She turned towards me. 

“ What if the letter were destroyed ? ” she 
asked slowly. 

“ It is impossible,” I answered, with 
thumping heart. 

“ But if it were ? ” 

“ There would be no war,” I said. “ There 
would be no disgrace for me; I should 
remain in Badenberg. But it is impossible ! ” 
“ Should you know it if you saw it ? ” she 
asked. 


“ Of course.” 

She rose up. 

“ Come with me,” she said. “ Do not 
speak. If Ave meet my father it will be a 
convent for me. You must do what seems 
best to you.” 

She Avas as pale as a sheet, but she 
Avalked firmly and without hesitation. As 
we crossed the hall where several servants 
were standing she turned to me. 

“ Your own conservatories,” she said, 
“are so much more beautiful. But there, 
you shall judge.” 

AVe turned off doAvn a long passage. At 
the end Avas a conservatory, but she paused 
and listened at the last door on the right. 
It Avas empty. She turned the handle. AVe 
passed inside. She took a bunch of keys 
from her pocket and unlocked a cabinet 
Avhich stood in the centre of the room. A 
pile of letters Avere there. My head sAvam 
Avith joy. 

“ Quick,” she Avhispered. “ Ah ! AA^e are 
lost. It is my father.” 

I dashed at the letters, seized a handful, 
but dropped them again as the lid of the 
cabinet fell upon my Avrist. She Avhirled me 
across the room, behind a curtain into a long 
annexe to the conservatory. I could have cried 
Avith the disappointment. But for her sake 
I Avould luiA'e rushed out and torn the letter 
to pieces before Yon Butz’s eyes. Gertrud 
came close to me. I passed my arm round 
her AA’aist ; she was trembling violently. 

Yoices approached, and footsteps. The 
door of the room opened. Through the 
crack in the curtain I saAv A^ou Butz enter, 
and my heart stood still. For behind him 
came a tall, familiar figure in a brilliant 
uniform partially covered by a long military 
cloak. 

“ And no\A% Yon Butz, the letter at once,” 
he exclaimed brusquely. 

“ Y^our Majesty shall have it,” Avas the 
quiet ansAver, as Yon Butz produced his 
keys. “ AA^hen you read it, you Avill say that 
I have done Avell in starting the great 
engine Avhich your Majesty has constructed 
Avith such marvellous and Avonderful fore- 
thought.” 

There Avas a moment’s pause. Then I 
saAv the letter pass into the Emperor’s hands. 

“ You yourself. Yon Butz,” I heard him 
say, “ are Avell acquainted Avith the contents ?” 

“ My secret agents,” Yon Butz answered, 
“ ever keen in the service of the Fatherland, 
borroAved it from the Queen’s messenger 
and brought me a copy. We have saved 
hours AALich are worth millions.” 










458 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


The Emperor broke the seal. He stood 
up and a fierce light burned in his eyes. 

‘‘ Von Butz,” he said, “ you will be my 
witness that these things which are to come 
are of God’s ordination, not mine. With 
the finest army in the world, trained and 
brought to perfection under my own care 
and governance, I, the certain master of this 
great continent from the firing of the first 
guns of battle, have ever refrained from 
violence or provocation. With the warlike 
spirit of my forefathers in pay veins, I have 
yet held out to all nations the olive branch 
instead of the iron grip. History must 
acknowledge this. Though I am all-conquer¬ 
ing and almighty, I have yet been slow to 
strike. You will remember this. Von Butz.” 

‘‘ Always, your Majesty.” 

The Emperor tore open the letter and 
bent over it vith serene forehead and 
expectant eyes. He read, frowned, re-read, 
and flung it passionately upon the table. 
He turned upon Yon Butz Avith a fury 

Avhich was paralysing. 

“ Dolt ! Fool! ” he cried. “ You have 
been tricked ! You have made me a 
laughing-stock ! You have betrayed the 

nation ! ” 

“ Your Majesty,” Yon Butz faltered, “ the 
copy I sent you Avas a faithful one. My 
agent copied it himself in the express.” 

Listen, then,” cried the Emperor. 

He read out letter ‘ A.’ 

* * ❖ * 


I Avalked home, my nerves tingling with 
excitement, relieved, but very puzzled. Sir 
George called me into the study immediately 
I arrived. 

“ Hamblin,” lie said, in an airy manner, 
‘‘ I’m afraid you have been disturbing your¬ 
self about a mare’s nest ! ” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” I found breath to say. 

Sir George nodded and tapped an open 
letter with his finger. 

“ It seems,” he continued, ‘‘ that Bucknell, 
the messenger, is rather a smart felloAV. He 
found out that his despatches had been 
tampered Avith, so Avired Highbury for in¬ 
structions. Immediately he received them 
he destroyed letter ‘B ’ and duplicated 'A.’ 
The duplication AA^as to catch the thief, if 
possible, and I should imagine that it 
did.” 

“ I should think so, too,” I ansAvered, 
smiling. 

“ One Avord more,” Sir George said, 
coughing, and assuming liis most dignified 
deportment. ‘‘With regard to Clara, I 
have talked to her seriously, and found her, 
as I expected, amenable to reason. You 
are both too young to think of marriage, 
and an engagement does not seem to us 
desirable. In short, Ave haA^e other vieAvs 
for Clara.” 

I dreAV a long breath — not of despair, 
but of resignation. That night, at the 
Kussian Embassy, I sat out four dances 
with Gertrud von Butz. 









rhoto by E. Norton Collins,] Norwood. 

FIREWORK DISPLAY DESIGNED BY MR. WALTER CRANE FOR I.ABOUR DAY AT THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 


PICTURES IN FIRE. 


By Frederick A. Talbot. 


F TPlEWORKS, we are told, were invented 
by the Chinese ; but from tlie crude 
efforts which have satisfied the 
almond-eyed, conservative Celestial for so 
many centuries, to the colossal and ingenious 
conceptions of Messrs. Brock and Co., is a 
very far cry indeed. It may be safely 
asserted that since 1805, when the first 
pyrotechnic display was given by this 
firm at the Crystal 
Palace, that home of 
entertainment has 
never yet possessed 
an attraction that has 
appealed so exten¬ 
sively to the coin- 
ill unity at large. The 
Crystal Palace is now 
universally conceded 
to be the centre of 
firework exhibitions, 
upon an elaborate 
scale, in the same 
sense that Drury 
Lane is regarded 
as the headquarters 
of gorgeous panto¬ 
mime. 

Although fireworks 
have been in exist¬ 
ence for hundreds of 
years, it is only dur¬ 
ing the past half 
century that pyro- 
tecb ny has been raised 
to its present artistic 
and scientific level, a 


nietanior]ihosis mainly if not entirely accom¬ 
plished through tlie indefatigable efforts of 
Messrs. Brock and Co. AVhat that level is 
may be very comprehensively gauged from 
the numerous unique illustrations that ac¬ 
company this article. There may be some 
who would cavil at the utilisation of the 
words “ art ” and “ science ” in connection 
with fireworks, but surely the manufac¬ 
ture and judicious 
combination of the 
vaiious chemicals in 
order to produce 
harmonious blending 
of colours, and tlie 
construction of the 
diff'erent subjects, 
sufficiently prove 
that the terms as 
applied to pyrotechny 
are by no means em¬ 
ployed in too elastic 
a sense. 

The largest set 
piece ever produced 
in fire was that 
which constituted 
the piece de rhistance 
at the Crystal 
Palace in 1898. 
It represented the 
destruction of 
the Spanish fleet in 
Manila Bay by 
Admiral Dewey, dur¬ 
ing the Spanish- 
American war. This 



FIREWORK PORTRAIT OF THE QUEEN OF HOLLAND. 

459 






















460 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


particular set piece was over 700 feet in 
leiigtli, and represented a surface area of 
nearly 60,000 square feet. It cost more than 
£500 to construct, while something like 
£100 vanished in smoke every time it was 
fired. As a realistic display it would be 
almost impossible to excel. Upon tlie right of 
the set piece was lined up the American fleet, 
while opposite were the defending Spanish 
vessels anchored in the bay, with the forts on 
shore in the background. The noise of the 
cannonade was deafening. The shells flew 
about in all directions, their trajectories in 
the air being rendered plainly visible by the 
burning fuses attached thereto. In the 


it may he mentioned that photographs were 
obtained, with one exception, of all the 
vessels that were engaged in this particular 
conflict, and from these the artist constructed 
his design. One cannot fail to notice the 
striking difference between the inodern 
American battleships and the antiquated, 
inferior type belonging to their enemy. 
The photographs of this miniature naval 
battle were taken, while the conflict was in 
progress, with no other illuminant than that 
supplied by the display itself. In order to 
obtain a more convincing idea of the mam¬ 
moth proportions of this set piece, the lower 
photograph should be placed on the right- 






1 

.A A 


An"’ .vV 








i - 

i • S' 

\4i r 


V .,r 


4; nI 


Photo by} 


[Xegretti d: Zambra. 


FIREWORK PORTRAITS OF HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN, AND THEIR ROYAL HIGHNESSES THE PRINCE 
AND PRINCESS OF WALES AND THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK. 


photograph of the unfortunate Spanish fleet 
will be observed the inscription, “True 
Till Death.” This depicts an actual 
incident that occurred in the battle. The 
Antonio del Ullva received such terrific, 
concentrated fire that she was nearly over¬ 
whelmed, and before she had time to recover, 
another shower of shot and shell was poured 
into her. Her commander was called upon 
to surrender, but with fearless patriotism re¬ 
fused, and the vessel went down with all 
hands, and with her colours nailed to the 
mast. The foundering of the battleship was 
portrayed with striking vividness. 

As an example of the infinite labour that 
is bestowed upon such gigantic pieces, in 
order to render them correct in every detail. 


hand side of the upper, when a panoramic 
view of the engagement is obtained. 

Such realistic displays, especially wlien the 
incident depicted possesses a patriotic senti¬ 
ment, appeal very strongly to the British 
public. Messrs. Brock have produced 
several set pieces dealing with English naval 
battles, such as “ The Battle of Trafalgar,” 
“ The Bombardment of Alexandria,” “ The 
Siege of Gibraltar,” “ The Bombardment of 
Canton,” and “ The Defeat of the Spanish 
Armada.” We are able to reproduce photo¬ 
graphs of the two latter displays. The 
former was a terrible and furious piece of 
work during the short time it lasted. There 
was the town of Canton, flanked by the hills 
upon which were placed the Chinese guns, 



Photo by'] [Xegretti <& Zambra. 

TAJ i\rATIAL. 



J*hoU) by K. Ilaxoldm (C: Co.,] \_Brigliton. 

FLIGHT OF KOMAN CANDLES AT SHEFFIELD PARK, MAY I), 1893. 








462 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


while out at sea stood the bombarding 
English vessels. In the photograph may be 
seen the spouts of smoke issuing from the 
Chinese cannons. Canton was knocked 
about as if visited by an eartlupuike. 
Buildings were thrown into the air by the 
explosions of the English sliells, and in a 
very short time scai’cely one stone of the 
town was left upon the otlier. During the 
engagement small boats put off from the 
English vessels and chased the Chinese junks 
in a very lively manner, though the latter 


of course shared the same fate as the town 
itself—dissolved into thin air—and thus left 
the British triumphant. 

“The Defeat of the Spanish Armada” 
was reproduced from a well-known engra\’ing. 
The quaint style of the vessels of that ])eriod 
looked extremely graceful outlined in fire. 
When the scene opened, both fleets were 
peacefully sailing up the English Channel. 
It was not long, however, before a furious 
cannonade ensued, and in a few minutes 
the erstwhile stately Spanish galleons were 


reduced to dismasted, crippled hulks drifting 
upon a fiery sea. 

To build a set piece is a veiy elaborate 
undertaking. The artist first collects all his 
material from photographs and sketches. In 
the large realistic set pieces, such as “ The 
Battle of i\Ianila Bay,” the artist is not per¬ 
mitted to rely upon liis imaginative faculty 
for his effect. Sometimes he has to make 
quite a large collection of data before he 
attempts his design, but in a few instances, 
such as “The Naval Review of the Jubilee 


of 1887,” the set piece is only an enormous 
enlargement of one photograph. He then 
makes a rough sketch of the design upon 
pa]ier divided into squares. When this is 
completed, the next thing is to transfer this 
design to the wooden framework which 
cari'ies the fii’eworks. The latter is also 
divided into small squai*es which correspond 
to those on the paper Avhich bears the artist’s 
original sketch. Therefore the artist has 
simply to transfer the design from the paper, 
square for square, to the wooden frames. 



Photo Inj K. n(twJci)is a- [lirig/itou. 

IIIK COI-ISKUM : EAKl. l)F SlI EFFI KI.D’s J)I81M.AY AT SHEFFIELD FAKK, MAY i), lS‘)o. 


PWTURtJS TN FTRE. 


468 



Photo by] ixegretti cfc Zambra. 

TIIIC 15ATTL1-: OF MANILA LAY— 

The tOJvds “ True till Death "formed the last jUuj signal of one of the Sjmnish commanders as his vessel foi n lered. 


This he does with chalk, the design, when 
completed, being outlined in cane and wood. 
Of course, as "may be natni*ally supposed, 
when bnilding a set piece of the proportions of 
“ The Battle of Manila, ” the framework has 
to be constructed in sections, each of which 
is carefully numbered, so that no mistakes 
may occur in the final fitting together. 

The cane and wood outline is studded 
throughout with specially formed nails with 
double points, placed about four inches apart. 
Upon these nails are secured the coloured 
lights, or “ lances,” as they are technically 
called, so that when finislied the framework 
with the projecting lances resembles a huge 
bristle brush. These lances are connected 
with a quick match, so that when fired they 
all ignite simultaneously. 

One of the most picturesque effects that 
has ever been produced at the Crystal Palace 
was “The Avalanche.” The scene was a 
typical view of the Alps, with the rugged, 
snow-topped crests of the mountains, all 
outlined in fire, and a railway train passing 
rapidly out of one tunnel into another. 
vScarcely had one observed the whole diorama. 


when there was an ominous rumble, and down 
the side of the tallest mountain thundered a 
huge mass of tiery snow, sweeping away the 
little chalet that reposed at the foot of the 
mountain in its awful passage. Our photo¬ 
graph was snapped just before the descent, 
and the chalet may be seen at the base of the 
picture. The avalanche was caused by the 
sudden igniting of a large mass of bright 
composition packed closely together on the 
framework, which when fired became one 
huge sheet of white flame. 

Another striking tableau was the repro¬ 
duction in fire of the famous Taj Mahal of 
Agra. It was a facsimile of a photograph, 
but of course only the front elevation of the 
building was delineated. Tlie pyrotechnic 
counterfeit of the sacred temple, however, 
was scarcely less magnificent than its 
beautiful original. When i\Ir. Brock visited 
India a few years ago, this set ])iece formed 
one of the items of his extensive and varied 
ref)ertowe, and the unsophisticated Hindoos 
were so impressed with the vivid represen¬ 
tation of their most sacred edifice that they 
])rostrated themseh'es before it. 



liEPKODUCKD IN FIKKWOKKS. 



4G4 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



Mr. Brock is most ingenious in the 
devising of ]iew attractions. One of the 
most popular is the fire portrait, in wliich 
enormous life-like enlargements of celebrities 
are outlined in lambent flame upon the 
framework screen. One of the largest of 
these was that of Queen Wilhelmina of 
Holland, which was produced a j^ropos of 
her coronation at Amsterdam in 1898. It 
measured sixty feet by forty. Our photo¬ 


graph of this interesting piece of work is 
particnlarly brilliant, owing to the compara¬ 
tive absence of smoke. This latter is one 
of the greatest disadvantages against which 
the man with the camera has to contend, 
since smokeless fireworks are still an invention 
of the fntnre. If the Avind be blowing from 
behind the set piece, the display is almost 
entirely obscured by the copious clouds of 
snlphnrons smoke emitted from the various 



THE AVALANCHE. 




PICTURES IN FIRE. 


4G5 


compeunds of wliich the 
lances are manufactured, so 
that a successful photograph 
becomes an impossibility. 
On the other hand, if the 
wind blows directly on the 
face of the set piece, carry¬ 
ing the smoke behind, the 
outline is rendered sharp 
and brilliant. There is one 
important point which the 
artist must remember when 
designing his picture. He 
must obtain tlie maximum 
of effect with the mini¬ 
mum of lines ; otherwise, 
should the design be at 
all intricate in construc¬ 
tion, when ignited the effect 
of the picture is lost in the 
extensive sheet of fire. 
Bearing this in mind, one 
cannot help admiring the 
skill of the artist, who ob¬ 
tains sucli veracious repro¬ 
ductions by, as it were, a 
few dashes of the pen. 

The firework portrait, 
however, has been still 
further increased in novelty 
and interest by the resource¬ 
ful genius of its inventor. 
There is a cunningly con¬ 
trived transformation device 
by which one scene is gradu¬ 
ally dissolved into another. 



Photo by] {Negretti & Zambra. 

CURIOUS KFI'HCT OF A CATlilORINK WIIKKI, IMiOTOGRAPIIKI) WHILE 
RKVOLVINO. 



THE NAVAL REVIEW, QUEEN’s JUBILEE, 1887. 





466 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 



Photo hy K Hawkins «f: Co.,1 [lirighion. 

FLIGHT OF ROMAN CANDLES FROM THE LAKE AT SHEFFIELD PARK, MAY 9, 1893. 


For instance, there 
was one long set 
piece wliicli when 
first fired depicted 
a cluster of roses, 
shamrocks, and 
tliistles, and then a 
surprising effect 
was attained by 
the gradual disso¬ 
lution of tliese 
national emblems 
into life-like por¬ 
traits of tlie Queen, 
the Prince and 
Princess of Wales, 
and the Duke and 
Duchess of York. 

Various Royal 
personages, when 
witnessing a fire¬ 
work display at the 
Crystal Palace, have 
become amateur 
pyrotechnists. The 
actual firing is done 
by simply pressing 
the prosaic button in the Royal Box, and 
electricity does the rest. The German Em¬ 
peror fired the Falls of Niagara, and also on 
one occasion the great set piece portraying 
the Battle of the Nile ; the Princess of 
Wales has ignited liuge portraits of the 
Queen, the German Emperor, the Prince of 
Wales, the Shah, and other Royal personages, 
including lierself ; lii Hung Chang started 
the fuse attached to his own flaming image, 
Avhicli was flanked Avith the greeting, “ We 
Wish Your Excellency a Long Life,” inscribed 
in Chinese hieroglyphics. Li was immensely 
pleased Avith this result, and, Avith his charac¬ 
teristic i 11(1 nisitiveness, ^h^sired full par¬ 
ticulars regarding the various ingredients 
employed, and even extended a request to 
Mr. Brock that he should go to China to 
enlighten the retrograde Celestials as to the 
Avonderful possibilities of fireAVorks. ^lessrs. 
Brock had the honour of carrying out the 
extensive illuminations and pyrotechnic dis¬ 
play held at Balmoral, under the personal 
patronage of the Queen, in aid of the (h’athie 
Churcln Her Majesty even prolonged her 
stay in the grounds in order to witnciss the 
fireAAmrks, and expressed herself as delighted 
Avith them. 

One of the most extraordinary, yet at the 
same time beautiful, jiyrotechnic spectacles is 
that produced Avitli aquatic fireworks. The 
skimmers, or “ Avater devils,” dart hither and 


thither along the surface of the Avater like 
hies, leaving in their Avake a sparkling line 
of hre ; the Chinese trees and Avaterlilies are 
simply boats in a stationary position, throw¬ 
ing a fountain of brightly coloured hre into 
the air, Avdiile the Roman candles eject their 
dazzling and multi-coloured stars in the 
same manner as if hred upon terra firma in 
the ordinary course. As Avill be seen from 
our illustration of such a unique display— 
reproduced through the courteous permission 
of the Earl of Sheffield—the sight is very 
pretty indeed, and is rendered more effective 
by the radiating rehections of the burning 
hreAVorks in the placid Avater. 

To the Earl of Sheffield belongs the dis¬ 
tinction of having given one of the most 
elaborate and costly private hrework displays 
in this country. This notable event occurred 
at Sheffield Park in 1893, Avhen the Earl, 
Avho has contributed so much to the deA^elop- 
ment of Anglo-Australian cricket, organised 
the illuminations as a greeting to the Colonial 
Eleven, AAdio contested their hrst engagement 
Avith the English cricketers at Sheffield Ikirk. 
The ])rogramme included, among numerous 
other items, a huge ])yrotechnic greeting, 
LIO feet in length, comprising the AA’ords, 
selected by the Earl himself, “Welcome, 
Australia. "Best Good Wishes for Your Recep¬ 
tion of Our Team in Australia.” Then there 
Avas a tremendous hight of about 1,590 



PICTURES IN FIRE. 


467 


Roman candles, which alone cost over £30. 
The latter, viewed from across the lake, 
from which point our photograpli was taken, 
was exceptionally striking. 

The British public is never loth to applaud 
humour, and it is safe to assert that few 
devices at the Crystal Palace are more ap¬ 
preciated than the living comic fireworks. 
By this novel innovation one is able to 
witness a bicycle race ; the village black¬ 
smith engaged in shoeing a horse; the 
pretty maiden milking her cow ; a tight¬ 
rope performance a la Blondin ; or a 
hornpipe competition—all reproduced with 
natural movements. One of the most popular 
set pieces of this description was a huge 
contrivance representing the British Lion. 
By his apparent inanimation in the first 
picture, the question naturally arose, “ Is he 
asleep ? ” though the interrogation was ren¬ 
dered superfluous by the ominous appearance 
of the animars left eyelid. All doubts were 
soon dispelled, for the eyelid began to wink 
knowingly, while the hitherto quiet tail 
lashed about in a furious maimer that 


boded ill to anyone who might be rash 
enoiigli to attempt to twist it. They say a 
lion gives vent to a deafening roar when 
he awakes, but in this particular instance 
it was the spectators who roared most 
entliusjastically. Few humorous contriv¬ 
ances luu'e provoked such mirth as this 
did, a circumstance due, no doubt, to the 
political events of that time, when President 
Kruger was experimenting with the Lion’s 
tail. 

As an evidence of the fact that pyrotechny 
has become a fine art worthy of the attention 
of artists, it may be mentioned that an 
extremely effective and colossal set piece 
fired at the Crystal Palace last May-day was 
designed by Mr. AValter Crane. It was a 
cartoon depicting the Angel of Liberty join¬ 
ing hands with representatives of Labour. 
The coloured fires employed in this set piece 
were specially invented for the occasion by 
the pyrotechnists. In order to depict this 
elaborate design on so large a scale no less 
than ()(),000 lances and five miles of quick 
match were utilised. 



Photo by'] [Xegretti cfe Zaintyi'a. 

THE BUMliAliDMENT OF CANTON. 




^be mmi 

From the Picture by St. Clair Simmons. 








ANNULLING A PKOPHECY. 

By ^Y. N. Oscar. 


Illustrated hy T. W. Henry. 



F you 
please, 
sir,” said 
my house- 
keeper, 
standing 
just in¬ 
side the 
doorway, 
“ there's 
a young 
lady 
wishes to see 
you.” 

I closed my 
hook—it was 
a particularly 
interesting one 
on psychology 
—with a momentary 
pang and looked up 
in some surprise. 
What could a young 
lady have to do with 
such a bookworm 
as I ? 


“ What name did she say, Mrs. Fio^tyins ? ” 
r asked. 

“ She said it didn’t matter,” answered the 
housekeeper. 

“ And she wants to see me ? ” I queried 
dubiously. 

“She said you, sir; she asked for Mr. 
Sangraeme.” 

I hesitated a moment. 

“ Does she look quite a respectable sort of 
person ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, she looks so,” answered 
Mrs. Figgins hopefully. 

“ Then you might show her in,” I 
returned. 

Mrs. Figgins departed and presently 
ushered in a young lady whose unexpected 
beauty caused me quite a flutter of the heart 
and sent the blood in unusual volume into my 
face. Nor was my embarrassment lessened 
when she suddenly stopped and regarded me 
with an expression compounded of doubt 
and astonishment. 


“But you’re not Mr. Sangraeme, are 
you ? ” she exclaimed. 


409 


“ To the best of my belief I am,” I 
answered, smiling to hide my nervousness. 
“ Mr. Harry Sangraeme, at your service. 
Will you kindly take a seat ? ” 

She continued to look me over for a few 
moments ; and then, with a pretty blush for 
her exclamation, she availed herself of the 
chair I had placed for her and proceeded to 
take ofp her gloves. 

“Well,” she said, a trifle nervously, “I 
suppose it’s all right. Do you know, I quite 
expected to find you an old man ! ” 

“ It’s very kind of you,” I returned, 
wondering what ailed her, “but really, I 
don’t see that I could make any use of him 
if you did.” 

“ I mean,” she explained, “ I expected to 
find that you were old.” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” I replied. 
“ You see, that s a thing that takes time. 
Still,” I continued hopefully, “I’m really 
making wonderful progress, considering—all 
things, you know.” 

A faint smile was her only comment on 
this ; but having taken off her gloves she 
extended her right hand tow^ards me, palm 
upAvards, and donned an air of expectancy. 

“ I am ready now,” she said. 

I looked at the hand and then I looked 
at her, and began to hope, in spite of hei 
beauty, that her friends were not very far 
off and were on the right track. Finally, 
feeling that I must humour her until their 
arrival, and observing that she seemed really 
to mean it, I reached forward, took hold of 
her hand, and shook it. 

“ How dare you I ” she cried, snatching it 
back as if I had stung it. 

“ Really,” I exclaimed, collapsing into the 
farthest corner of my chair, “ I—I’m very 
sorry if I have done wrong, but—I thought 
you were according me the privilege—of 
shaking hands.” 

“ I w'asn’t! ” she retorted, still angrily. 

“ I wanted you to look at it.” 

“ Oh, I see,” I returned, devoutly Avishing 
for the advent of Avhose ever duty it Avas to 
look after her. “ Of course ! How stupid 
of me I I ought to have known.” 

“ I can’t understand why you didn’t,” she 
said severely. 














470 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


“ JSior I,” I admitted ; “ it is a mystery 
too deep to be fathomed. Pray aecept my 
apologies for the error. And now, if von 
will kindly favour me once more-” 

Somewhat mollified, she held it out again, 
and I leaned forward and looked at it care- 
fuUy. 

“It is a very nice hand indeed,” 1 said 
with critical appreciation. 

“ Is it really ? ” she asked, in a pleased 
tone. 

“ It is indeed,” I returned. 

Then, taking hold of it gently, I turned it 
over and examined the back. I looked at 
the slim fingers, the dainty knuckles, tlie 


“ ‘ What name did she say ? ’ ” 

‘v. 

well-trimmed nails, and traced with my eyes 
the course of the veins beneath the fair 
skin. When I had finished I leaned back 
in my chair, brought the tips of my fingers 
together, and looked at her. 

“ Yes,” I said slowly, after the manner of 
one delivering a carefully matured opinion, 
“I have no hesitation in saying that it is 
a very beautiful hand. Very beautiful 
indeed.” 

She stared at me as if she thought I was 
demented. 

“ Yes, yes ! ” she cried impatiently. “ But 
what does it mean ? ” 

“Mean?” I asked blankly. (Would her 
friends never come ?) 


“Yes, mean!” she exclaimed. “Don’t 
yon understand ? I Avant you to tell me my 
fortune ! ” 

“ Yonr fortune ! ” I ejaculated. “ My 
dear young lady. Pm afraid Ave have been at 
cross-purposes. I am not a palmist, and I 
don’t tell fortunes by the hand.” 

“ Don’t you ? ” she asked, as if she only 
half-believed me. 

“ I don’t,” I returned seriously. 

There Avas a pause, during Avhich she 
played disappointedly Avith her gloves. 

“ Is it bumps, then ? ” she asked suddenly. 

“ Er—it may be, for anything I knoAV,” 

I returned doubtfully. “ But to me it looked 
a very pretty hand 
indeed—not at all 
bumpy.” 

“ Oh, dear 1 ” 
slie ejaculated 
helplessly. “I 
mean, do you tell 
the bumps on 
people’s heads ? ” 

“ I’m afraid I 
must be very 
dense to-day,” I 
said apologetically. 
“No, I don’t tell 
fortunes or bumj3S, 
or anything nice 
and useful of that 
sort. I’m merely a 
student—a book- 
Avorm.” 

“What a pity!” 
she murmured, 
gathering up her 
gloves. “ I (|uite 
thouglit you did. 
AYell, I suppose 
there is nothing 
for it but to go.” 

“ Unless you aaiII do me the honour of 
staying a little longer,” I said politely, being 
no longer strikingly eager for the advent of 
her friends. 

“ Oh, no, thank you ; I mustn’t,” she said, 
rising. “ You’ll think me horribly rude to 
have come in upon you like this, interrupting 
you in vour reading and-” 

“Not at all,”^ I declared. “On tlie 
contrary, it has been quite an unexpected 
pleasure.” 

“ I’m afraid you’re only saying so,” she 
ansAA^ered. “ But, any Avay, its very kind of 
you to take it so nicely. Of course, it has 
been a disappointment for me not to have 
fortune told, because-” 









ANNULLING .1 PROPHECY. 


471 


AYell,” I said, plunicin^; recklessly into 
the gulf, “tliere need be no disappointment, 
after all. If you’ll just sit down again for 
a few minutes. I’ll — I’ll rake ii]) my 
remembrance of palmist lore, and I—I’ll 
tell you your fortune ! ” And I trembled 
at my own audacity. 

“ But I thought you said yon couldn't ? ” 
she exclaimed. 

“ I meant professionally, yon know,” I 
answered gravely. “ And I couldn’t do it 
professionally, because I’m not sufficiently 
acquainted with the deeper mysteries of the 
science ; but about the smaller things, sucli 
as character, and disposition, and legacies, 
and journeys by laud and sea, and accidents, 
and unexpected events, and dark men and 
fair men, and—and all that sort of thing, 
you know, just in a friendly way, if you will 

allow me, I shall be only too happy-” 

and I paused for breath. 

“ Oh, well,” she returned, her doubts 
vanishing, “if you really will, and you’re 
quite sure I’m not troubling you-” 

“ Quite sure ! ” I declared. “ Indeed, it 
will be as great a pleasure for me as for you. 
So if you will resume your seat and let me 

see your hand again-” and I drew my 

chair up so as to be just in front of her. 

“ Well, it’s very kind of you,” she said, 
sitting down and extending her hand, “ and 
I’m awfully obliged to you. And will you 
give me a nice fortune, please ? ” 

“ I must go by what is Avritten in your 
hand,” I answered gravely ; “ but I think — 
oh, yes, I think it Avill be a very nice one. 
Er— both hands, please.” 

This request AA^as a happy inspiration, and 
I was gratified to observe that she seemed to 
be impressed by it. She held out the other 
hand obediently, resting her elbows on lier 
knees. 

“ That’s right,” I said. “ Noav, let me see 
—oh, character first, of course. Well, you 
knoAV,” I continued, guessing my hardest, 
for I kncAV just as much of palmistry as a 
cat does of astronomy, “ I should say that 
you are truthful and generous—tAVO high 
virtues in anybody—and, also, that you are 
Avarm-hearted, sympathetic, and not giA^eii to 
bearing malice,” and I looked up into her 
face to see the effect of this first shot. 

“ Oh, that’s A^ery good, isn’t it ? ” she 
said, Avith a gratified smile. 

“ Could hardly be better,” I agreed, 

bending OA^er her hand again. “ But-” T 

Avas about to continue. 

“ Oh, dear ! Is there a ‘ but ’ to it ? ” she 
exclaimed. 


1 shook my liead Avith an air of grave 
regret. “ Yon are hardly Avhat I should call 
logical,” I said seriously. “ You don’t reason 
things out carefully enough, you know ; you 
are too hasty in making up your mind,” 
and again I looked up to see how she took it. 

“Oh, yes,” she admitted readily, “I’m 
afraid that’s true.” 

“ AYliat is here must be,” I returned Avith 
an air of conviction. “Still,” I resumed, 
“ tin's—er--defecfc is Avell set off by a readi¬ 
ness to admit an error when it is pointed out 
to you, and to apologise or make such amends 
as the case demands.” 

“ Oh, Avell, that’s better, isn’t it ? ” she 
asked brightly. 

“ Decidedly,” I returned. “ But to refer 
again to your—er—shortcomings-” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” she ejaculated. 

“ It is a very painful duty, but it must be 
performed,” 1 said heroically. “ You are 
inq)ulsive, very impulsive —almost to rashness. 
You act on the spur of the moment, without 
thiidving Avhat Avill be the result of your 
action ; and sometimes, OAving to this failing, 
you find yourself placed in more or less 
awkward predicaments.” 

“ Oh, yes I ” she cried feelingly ; “ that’s 
true, too. They’re always telling me the 
same thing at home. Oh, how clever you 
are ! Will you show me Avhere it says it on 
my hand ? ” 

I had but a moment in Avhich to make up 
my mind. “There, and there, and there, 
and there,” I ansAA^ered, pressing a finger in 
four different places, and devoutly hoping 
that the apparent intricacy of a more detailed 
explanation Avould prevent her asking for it. 
Fortunately my hope AA^as fulfilled, and I 
proceeded rather hastily Avith, “And noAV 
AA^e Avill go on to the fortune proper.” 

“ Oh, yes ; that’s Avhat I really Avant to 
kiioAV ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Well, in the first place,” I said, “ you have 
had, taking all things into consideration, a 
very happy life ”—her bright, cheery disposi¬ 
tion Avas my warrant for this statement— 
“ and you Avill probably have as happy a life 
in the future. Of course, you Avill have your 
troubles, like eA-erybody else ; but as a life it 
promises to be happy.” 

“ W^ill it be a long one ? ” she asked. 

“Yes, Avith proper care ; but”—I scruti¬ 
nised her hand closely and put on an air of 
deep Avisdom—“ you Avill find it of advantage 
to observe the ordinary rules of health about 
taking just sufficient exercise, not catching 
cold, and all that sort of thing. You should 
never, for instance, stand or sit in a draught. 




472 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


because you might stop that draught and 
contract a cold that was really intended for 
someone else.” 

She laughed. “I’ll take care, then,” 
she said. “ Am I to have any legacic:^ ? ” 

“ Why, you have had one ! ” I answered, 
on the spur of the moment, and wished 
immediately I had left the words unsaid. 

“ Have I ? ” she asked in surprise. 

“Well, haven’t you?” I queried, wonder¬ 
ing how I was going to get out of this 
guess. 

“ I don’t remember any,” she replied 
thoughtfully. 

“ Think again,” I said, with an air of 
conviction. 

She puckered her brows with the effort, 
while I tried to make up my mind whether, 
in the event of there having been no legacy 
of any sort, I should acknowledge a mistake 
or denounce the hand for saying the tiling 
which was not. 

“ No,” she said presently, “ I’ve never had 
a legacy in my life—that I remember, at 
least; and I think I should remember if I 
had had one. Of course, there was that 
silver pencil-case that aunt left-” 

“ That will be it,” I said, feeling much 
relieved. “It doesn’t say it was a large 
legacy, you know,” I explained. 

She opened her eyes wide. “ And can you 
see such a little thing as a pencil-case ? ” she 
asked in surprise. 

“ Oh, I can see smaller things than that,” 
I returned, for I was warming to my work. 
“ For instance, when you were quite a small 
child you swallowed a plum-stone which 
might have given very serious trouble if it 
had stopped in your throat.” 

“Oh, however can you tell ? ” she 
exclaimed admiringly. “ I remember it 
quite well. I was awfully frightened, and 
father had to come and slap my back.” 

“Ah, the slaps aren’t marked,” I said, 
examining her hand attentively, “ or else, as 
is probable, the marks have faded away by 
now. But the plum-stone, you see, would be 
a Peril, with a capital P, and would therefore 
leave a permanent mark. And now,” I con¬ 
tinued, with a quiet smile that might be 
taken to mean anything, “ how many sweet¬ 
hearts have you ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” she said, with the 
merest trace of stiffness in her tone. 

“ I’m only going to tell you all about your 
little love affairs, past, present, and future,” 
I said, glancing up into her face to see the 
effect of my words and also of the quiet 
smile that might be taken to mean anything. 


“ Oh, yes, of course,” she returned, with a 
pretty blush. “I don’t think you’ll find 
any; but it wouldn’t be a proper fortune 
without some, would it ? ” 

“Certainly not,” I agreed; “or at best 
but a bad fortune. Well, you are not by 
any means without admirers ”—I was really 
one of the number myself by this time— 

“ but you should be very careful about your 
choice.” 

“ Oh, there’s plenty of time for that yet,” 
she laughed, blushing again. 

“Well, I don’t know,” I returned thought¬ 
fully. “ Who is this dark man who is—er— 
to say the least of it, finding your company 
very agreeable ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she said wonderingly. 

“ I don’t know any dark men ; at least, not 
that—not that-” 

“ He would seem not to have known you 
for very long,” I continued, “ and is taking 
np your attention under Avhat I’m afraid I 
must call false pretences.” 

“ Oh, dear, I don’t like that,” she said. 

“ Oh, there’s nothing necessarily bad about 
it,” I ansAvered reassuringly. “ Perhaps he’s 
pretending to knoAV a great deal about some¬ 
thing he’s very ignorant of, or it might be 
that he is professing to take a greater 
interest than he really feels in something 
you are interested in. But, in any case, his 
idea is to Avin your approbation.” 

“ Oh, I see,” she returned more leniently. 
“ But I can’t think of anyone who is doing 
that.” 

“ Of course you mightn’t think that he 
Avas pretending,” I continued. “ You might 
think that he really kneAV or Avas really 
interested, as the case may be. Can you 
think of a dark man avIio might possibly be 
doing as I say ? ” 

“ No, I can’t,” she answered after a pause. 
“ But Avhat do you really mean by dark ? 
Would you call yourself dark, for instance ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” I replied, “ I’m dark, though 
not very. This dark man should be as dark 
as I, at least.” 

“ I can’t call one to mind,” she ansAvered 
after another pause. 

“ Well,” I continued, “ who is this fair 
man ? ” 

“Is there a fair man as Avell ? ” she asked. 

“ Of course,” I rejoined ; “ there always 
is, you know. He seems to be the rival of 
the dark man, and apparently is the more 
likely to succeed.” 

“ Whoever can he be ? ” she exclaimed. 
“ What is he like, please ? ” 

“ Bather peculiar,” I answered ; “ a large 




ANNULLING A PROPHECY 


473 



body, a small head, and a very long nose. 
Oh, and one of his legs is very short—ever 
so much shorter than the other.” 

‘‘ Oh, dear ! ” she exclaimed. “ And yon 
say he looks the—er—the more likely to 
succeed of the two ? ” 

“ Quite so,” I answered. “ Indeed, 
appears to be actually successful.” 

‘‘ Oh, but I wouldn’t have such a man 
that ! ” slie exclaimed. 

‘‘ But if it says so ? ” I suggested. 

‘‘ I don’t care what it says! ” she re¬ 
turned. “It 
can’t be true ! ” 
“ Not true ? ” 


he 


as 


I asked incredulously. “ What about the 
legacy ? ” 

“Well,-but-” 

“And the plum-stone ? ” I added. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” she cried. “ But are you 
quite sure ? Haven’t you made a mistake ? ” 
“ Oh, no mistake at all,” I returned 
confidently. 

“ Well, I don’t care ! ” she cried. “ I 
wouldn’t have sncli a man as that! ” 

“ But what is widtten in your hand, you 
know-” I hinted. 


There was a little pause, and then— 

“ Oh, but please, isn’t there a way out ? 
Do say tliere is ! ” 

“Well,” I answered, relenting, “there is 
just a hint of something of the sort, but it 
wouldn’t be wise to tell you what it is now.” 
“ Why not ? ” slie asked. 

“Because,” I returned, “it might spoil 
You see,” I went on 
“ tliese propliecies, read 
of Nature’s writing, are 
to be trifled with ! They must 
approached with a due sense of 


it if I did. 
grandiloquently, 
from the book 
not 
be 

their supreme importance, 
to di\'ulge this secret at an 


and if I were 
inopportune 
moment, it—er— 
you see, it might 
spoil it, as I said 
before,” and I 
shook my head 
gviively. 

She looked at 
me for a few 
moments with a 
troubled expres¬ 
sion on her beau¬ 
tiful face. 

“Well, but — 
when will you tell 
me ? ” she asked. 
“You see, we 
may never meet 


“ Oh, yes, we 
shall,” I replied 
quickly ; “ er—to 
judge by your 
hand, that is.” 

“ Shall we ? ” 
she asked doubt¬ 
fully, while a touch 
of colour played 
furtively upon her 
cheeks. 

“Most c e r - 
tainly,” I returned. 
“ Besides, you see, 
we must meet again so that I can tell you at 
the proper time liow to avoid this fair man.” 

“Of conrse,” she answered, seeming only 
half - convinced. “ Bnt still — well, of 

course-” she hesitated a moment, while 

the colour deepened in her face—“ I often go 
for a walk over the cliffs in the mornings.” 

“Do you ? Why, so do I—er—sometimes,” 
I returned, instantly deciding that those cliffs 
should know me much oftener than they had 
done. “So, you see, we shall be sure to 
meet there—perhaps often, and then I can 

2 K 


‘ I must go by what 
is written in your 
hand ? ’ ” 





474 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


tell yon wlien the proper time comes. And 

now-” I continued, turning again to her 

hand. 

“ Oil, lint 1 mustn’t stop any longer,” she 
interrupted. “ It’s getting quite late, and I 
must go now.” 

‘‘ Must you, really ? ” I asked, in a tone 
whose regret was not assumed. 

“ Yes, really,” she answered, rising. ‘‘ But 
you’ll let me know in plenty of time, won’t 
you ? You won’t forget ? ” 

‘‘Indeed, I won’t forget,” I returned 
fervently—as if it were likely ! “ I’m so 

glad you’ve been. You have made me spend 
quite a pleasant morning.” 

“ I’m afraid I’ve interrupted you,” she 
answered, holding out her hand—to be 
shaken this time. “ I’m awfully obliged to 
you for being so kind. Grood morning ! ” 

I accompanied her to the door, and when 
I returned the room seemed suddenly to 
have gone into mourning, though in reality 
the sun shone as brightly as before. As I 
sank into my chair I neglected to stretch 
out my hand for my book — the very 
interesting one on psychology. 

“ It w\as a lucky thought,” I soliloquised, 
“about that fair man. But I’ll try to put 
his nose out of joint in spite of its—length, 
was it ? or did I say it was short ? But it 
doesn’t matter. H’m—m, yes ! I suppose 
it comes to all of us some time or other ; and 
when it comes like this, it must be love at 
first siglit. What a sweet girl ! ” 

It was some days before I saw her again, 
owing to the fact that the sun had taken a 
fit of the sulks and had hidden himself 
behind heavy clouds which, meanwliile, did 
their best to dissipate themselves upon a 
sodden and ungrateful world. At length 
they succeeded in their laudable desire, and 
on the first fine morning I made my way to 
the clifPs and strolled about, doubting, yet 
hoping for, her coming. Presently, however, 
I saw her breasting a knoll about a hundred 
yards away. Curbing my impatience I 
loitered towards her. 

“ Good morning ! ” she said, as we neared 
each other. “I’m so glad you’ve come. 
That fair man has been on my mind ever 
since we parted.” 

“ The fair man ? ” 1 queried. I had been 
so busy thinking of her that the fair man 
had almost escaped my memory. “ Oh, yes, 
of course ; what a sad burden he must have 
been ! ” 

“ Terrible ! ” she rejoined. “ I’ve been 
quite troubled about him, and I do so wish 
you had made a mistake.” 


“ I jet us sit down here for a few minutes,” 

I said, indicating a convenient stone, “ and 
show me your hand again. There, that’s 
right,” I added, as, having seated herself 
and taken off her glove, slie held her hand 
towards me. 

I took it ill mine and looked at it closely. 
It really was a dear little hand ! 

“No,” I said slowly, in a tone of spurious 
regret, “ there’s no mistake. There is tlie 
dark man trying to win your regard by 
means of a pretended attainment, and there 
is the fair man, with his big head and his 
stumpy nose-” 

“ His big head and stumpy nose ! ” she 
exclaimed. “ I thought you said he had a 
little head and a big nose.” 

“ Er—yes ; that’s what I meant to say,” I 
corrected. “His big head and his—no—1 
mean, his little head and his big nose, and 
his two great long legs-” 

“ His tivo long legs ! ” she cried, staring at 
me. “ But I’m sure that you said one of his 
legs was a short one.” 

“ Er—comparatively speaking, only,” I 
explained, getting rather nervous. “ But, you 
see, they’re both long ; even the short one is 
a long one, while the long one is longer 
still—er—in fact, reaches down to the 
ground when he’s standing up.” 

“ Oh, dear ! what a creature ! ” she 
exclaimed. Then suddenly she turned on 
me. “But of course tliey reach down to 
tlie ground when he’s standing up, like 
everybody’s ! ” 

“ Only one of them,” I declared. “ You see, 
tlie other has aspirations—tries to keep its sole 
above the level of the gutter, and all that sort 
of thing. It possesses a certain diffidence of 
character, too—has some instinct of modera¬ 
tion, not like its fellow. In short, you might 
even say that it is obtrusively unobtrusive.” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” she sighed. “ And didn’t 
you say that he had a large body ? ” 

“ Enormous ! ” I declared. “ Out of all 
proportion ! ” 

“ What! out of all proportion even to his 
long leg ? ” she asked in amazement. 

“ Er—yes ; even to Ids long leg,” I assured 
her. 

“ Why, he must be a giant! ” she 
exclaimed. 

“ A positive monster,” I admitted readily. 

“And.do you suppose that I would have 
such a—a creature as that ? ” she queried 
with warmth. 

“ It would be a thousand pities, indeed,” 
I admitted gloomily. “ Still, what is written 
in your hand, you know-” 






ANNULLING A PROPHECY. 


475 



“ But you said there was a way out! ” she 
exclaimed, looking half ready to cry. ‘‘I’m 
sure you did ! ” 

“Of course,” I admitted; “so there is. 
There is always one way out of such a 
prophecy as this-” 

“ Oh, no ! ” she exclaimed, shrinking hack. 
“I—I daren’t! And I’m not tired "of life 
yet! Besides, it would be wicked ! ” 

“ I don’t mean that way,” I returned. 
“ The way I mean isn’t quite so bad as that 
—anyway, not at first. Though, after all,” 
I continued gloomily, “it’s quite possible 
that you might think it was.” 

“But perhaps I 
shouldn’t,” she said, 
with a sudden soft look 
in her eyes. “ Tell 
me what it is.” 

“Well,” I said, 

“ there’s that dark 
man that I told you 
about-” 

“ I don’t want to 
know about that dark 
man ! ” she burst out. 

“ I don’t want to know 
about him or the fair 
man or any—I mean 

—that is-” and 

she broke off in some 
confusion, her face 
flushing crimson as 
she turned it away 
from me. 

“ Then of course 
that settles it,” I said 
dejectedly. “I feel 
very sorry for him, 
though no doubt he 
deserves it for having 
pretended to know 
what he was really 
ignorant of, so as to 
enjoy your companion¬ 
ship. I don’t think he’ll ever marry after 
this. He’ll take it very badly, very badly 
indeed ; although he’s only known you for 
so short a time—because, you see—lie had 
got to be so fond of you—to judge by your 
hand, that is.” 

She turned a little—just a very little — 
towards me, yet still continued to gaze out 
over the sea and vouchsafed no reply. 

“ I shouldn’t say he was very dark,” I con¬ 
tinued. “ I should think he would be about 
as dark as I. But I am forgetting ; you 
don’t want to hear about him. He must go 
back to his books ! ” 


“ ‘Tell me, are you sorry 


She turned a little more towards me, yet 
still kept her eyes fixed on the distant 
horizon. 

“ Why,” she murmured timidly, “ is he— 
fond of books ? ” 

“Yes—fortunately for him ! ” I returned. 
“ He had just broken off in the middle of a 
book—a very interesting book, too, on 
psychology—the first time he saw you ; and 
afterwards he couldn’t take it up again for 
thinking of you. And yet,” I continued 
meditatively, “ it was a wonderfully interest¬ 
ing book—all about psychology, you know.” 

“ It doesn’t sound as if it would be very 
interesting,” she re¬ 
plied doubtfully. 

“Well,” I said, “he 
doesn’t find it so in¬ 
teresting now as he 
did.” 

“ And, besides,” she 
continued, “ those sort 
of men sometimes get 
to be fonder of their 
books than of their— 

I mean—their-” 

“Ah, but this one 
wouldn’t!” I said 
eagerly. “ At least,” 
I added, with hasty 
caution, “it doesn’t 
seem to say so in your 
liand. Of course, 
neither would the fair 
man, for the matter of 
til at; but then he 
doesn’t care for books, 
and the dark one does.” 

“Tell me—some 
more about him,” she 
said softly, turning her 
face yet a little more 
towards me. 

“About which—the 
fair man ? ” 

“ No ; I mean—the dark one.” 

“ Then let me have your hand again.” 

She turned until we almost faced each 
other and lield out her hand timidly. I 
took it in both mine and clasped it with 
gentle pressure. 

“ Yes,” I said, looking not at her hand, 
but into her face, with its changing colour, 
and into her eyes, full of the soft brilliance 
of awakened love, “ he is here. Do you 
know, he thought to be a lonely student, to 
fill his soul with the dry husks of bookish 
learning ; but from the moment when your 
beauty burst upon him he wished it otherwise. 








THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE 


476 

for in an instant lie had learned from you a 
lesson that his tomes had never taught him— 
he had learned—to love ! ” 

Her beautiful face took a deeper hue, and 
her hand quivered in mine, but she let it 
remain. 

“ Do you know of such a one ? ” I asked. 
“I — I don’t know,” she murmured 
nervously. “ How should I ? ” 

“ Shall I tell you more about him ? May 
I go on ? ” 

“ If—you please.” 

“ He was reading, as T told you before,” 
I continued, “ when you were announced. 
You had mistaken him for a certain 

palmist-” 

“ Oh ! ” 

“-of the same name,” I continued, 

“and you had come to have your fortune 
told-” 

“ Why, it’s yourself! ” she said in a 
whisper. 

“ And if it is, dear ? ” I asked, drawing 
her towards me. “ Are you sorry ? ” 

“ Oh,” she whispered, “ it’s so strange ! 
And—and—I don’t know you ! ” 

“Nor do I you,” I answered earnestly ; 
“ but I would trust that sweet face of yours 
anywhere. Tell me, are you sorry ? ” 

“ No,” she murmured brokenly, bending 
her head to hide her burning blushes, 
“ I—I don’t think so.” Then, as I 
placed my arm more boldly round her, 
she yielded to the pressure, and yielding, 


whispered in my ear, “ No ; 1—I think 
I’m—very glad.” 

“You see, sweet,” I said, as we strolled 
homewards arm-in-arm, “ there’s always one 
way out of such a prophecy as that about 
the fair man.” 

“ AVhat way do you mean ? ” she asked. 

“ Why, to marry the prophet instead,” I 
answered. 

She blushed prettily and then gave a 
happy laugh. 

“ Do you know,” she said, “ I don’t believe 
you read my fortune from my hand at all! 
I believe you guessed it all ! ” 

“ What ! ” I exclaimed. “ Have you 
forgotten about the legacy ? ” 

“ It was only a pencil-case,” slie replied. 

“ And the plum-stone ? ” I continued. 

“Everybody does that sort of thing, 
thougli,” she answered. 

“ And the fair man with all the curious 
appurtenances that an eccentric Nature 
could bestow ? ” I queried. 

“ I’m sure you made him up, anyway ! ” 
she retorted, laughing gaily. “ I’m quite 
sure you did ! ” 

“Well, and I don’t care if I did,” I 
answered, returning her laugh. “ In any 
case, he has served his turn well, and—I, 
for one, sweet, bear him no ill-will.” 

“No,” she whispered, with a sudden 
seriousness, while her dainty hand rested 
more heavily on my arm, “ nor I—now ; 
nor I, either.” 

















THE 

EDITOR’S 

SCRAP¬ 

BOOK. 

Hyde Park Orator: And 
what, I ask you, is the crying 
need of the present day? 

Voice from the Crowd ; A 
pocket-handkerchief. 


“Well, there’s one advantage 
we shall get from this war,” said 
Mrs. Knowall — “ oranges will 
surely be cheaper now that we’ve 
taken the Orange Free State.” 


Auntie (protectingly): Now, 
you mustn’t get frightened, Ferdie, 
when the lion roars like that; 
he’s only waiting to be fed. 

Ferdie (complacently): Oh, I 
know; Dad’s just the same when 
his meals aren’t ready. 



FAR SAFEIi. 


Thomson (who has been taken for a drive with friend’s 
by Jove, old chap, Pm beginning to wish 1 had gone out to 
after all! 


new tandem); 
South Africa, 


Small Girl (at the conclusion of a visitor’s 
elaborate vocal performance): Why does Miss 
Jones gargle like that when she hasn’t any 
medicine to do it with ? 



DAIRY-MADE MUSIC. 

Professor McConnell declared at a farmers’ dinner recently 
that “ Music, suitable in quality and administered at the 
right moment,” was a never-failing means of increasing the 
supply of cream. 

Puss played the violin too soon. 

Or perhaps unsuitably, you’d say, sir. 

For classic cow that cleared the moon. 

But missed, no doubt, the Milky Way, sir. 

Yet I, alas! cannot forget 
Your theory is strangely true, sir; 

And must admit with much regret. 

Some music acts as (s)cream producer. 

A. R. 



School Inspector: Where are zebras mostly 
found ? 

Small Boy : Illustrating the letter Z. 


Waiter : Shall I cut you a slice from the 
joint, sir ? 

Testy Old Gentleman : I’m sure it’s quite 
immaterial to me; you can chop it or saw it olf, 
for all I cai’e, provided I get the slice. 



Mistress: Jane, did you make the chicken 
broth as I told you ? 

Jane: Yes’m. 
iNIistress : AVhere is it ? 

Jane : Wh}^, mum, 1 used it to feed the 
chickens with, of course ! 



Householder : Do I understand that this meter 
accurately registers the amount of gas we burn? 

Inspector : That is a detail I have no time to 
discuss, sir; but you may rest assured it registers 
with the utmost exactitude the amount you have 
to pay for. 





478 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



“ Yes,” said Farmer Snodgrass, 
“ I’ve taken a powder for my 
headache, a pill for my liver, and 
a capsule for the gout in my foot. 
But I’m darned if 1 can make out 
how the things know the right 
place to go to after they get 
inside! ” 


He : Miss Brown—Gladys, I 
love you. Say you will be my 
wife. 

She : Oh, Mr. Bobinson, this is 
so sudden. I must have time 
to- 

He (interrupting): Of course, 
if you insist. In any case, this 
diamond ring will keep until- 

She (interrupting): That’s 
what I was about to say. 1 
must have time to try on the 
ring, at least, before promising 
what vou ask. 


A DISTINCTION WITH A DIFFERENCE. 

“ You have two brothers, haven’t you V” he inquired. 

“ Yes ; why do you ask ? ” 

“ I was only wondering whether you would care to have me for a third ? ” 

“ I’m very sorry,” she replied thoughtfully, “ but I will be a wife to you. 
if that would do instead.” 

Minister ; I’m sorry to find 
you coming out of a public-house 
again, Hamish, after all you 
promised me. 

Hamish: Aye, sir, it’s wonner- 
ful what an awfu’ deceivin’ thing 
this mist is! D’ye ken, I went 
in there the noo, thinkiu’ ’twas 
the butcher’s slioji! 


Prodkins: I don’t suppose 
there’ll be much for dinner, but if 
you’ll take us as we are—such as 
it is- 

CiiJssERKiNS: Don’t apologise, 
old fellow. I’ve dined at your 
house before, remember. 


THE ONLY WAY. 

MRS. QUAGQLES .* But where is aft ? 


Vicar : Lady Snooks might 
have given more than a sovereign 
to the fund, when you consider 
her means. 

Vicar’s Wife : Perhaps so; but 
not when you consider her mean¬ 
ness. 


“What a cold that donkey 
has,” remarked a man to his 
friend as they passed a hawker’s 
cart with a poor animal wheezing 
terribly. “ And that reminds me,” 
he continued, “ how is your cold V ” 
































2[ ipossible jEi'planatioiu 

She; Why is it, I wuiuior, tliat little men so often marry larn-o women? 

IIk : I don’t know, unless it is that tlie little fellows are afraid to back out of the engagements. 










480 


TEE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


“ Did I hear you say, guard, that the engine 
was at the rear end of the train ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; we’ve got an engine at each end. 
It takes an extra one to push us up the mountain.” 

“ Dear, dear! What shall I do ? I’m always 
so terribly ill if I ride with my back to the 
engine.” 



iJJS-THE HUBBARD DOG. 

Old Mother Hubbard 
She went to the cupboard 

To g-et her poor dog some bread ; 
When she got there 
The cupboard was bare, 

So the quadruped ate her instead. 

To this she objected— 

As might be expected— 

But he, with a shrug of his face. 
Said, “ Dear Mrs. Hubbard, 

The state of your cupboard 

Has long been a national disgrace I 

“It’s always the same— 

No poultry, no game. 

Not a vestige of knuckle of pheasant. 
Not a loin of roast ham, 

Not a wing of cold lamb. 

Not even a sausage of apricot Jam— 

And I find it distinctly unpleasant! 

“That greedy young Horner 
Sits smug in his corner. 

And gorges at pie all the day; 

While horrid Miss Muffet 
Just lives on her tuffet. 

And gobbles her curds and whey. 


“But when I have bones 
They’re like underdone stones! 

Though you know my digestion is shady! 
And as for your biscuit. 

My teeth wouldn’t risk it! 

Such fossils don’t tempt them, old lady! 
“I have made up my mind 
That whenever 1 find 

No menu affixed to the larder, 

I always shall eat you ! 

It’s hard thus to treat you. 

But when 1 am hungry—it’s harder ! 

“So now we’ll adjourn 
All remarks, and return 

Our attention to lunch for a minute; ’’ 
But wise Mother Hubbard 
Reached down from her cupboard 

A muzzle, and popped his head in it! 

JF. Klickniann. 



Magistrate: The evidence shows that you 
threw a stone at this man. 

Mrs. Hooligan : Sure! and the looks of him 
shows more than that, yer honour; they shows 
that I hit him ! 



Clergyman : Sup])ose you wei’e to try heaping 
coals of fire upon your husband’s head, my good 
woman ? 

Much-tried Matron: That wouldn’t do no 
good. I’ve thrown a lighted lamp at him several 
times, but he’s just as bad next day. 



A HAD SHOT. 

Mrs. Snoblkigh ; Oh, Major Dashwood, how nice it is to meet you among all these nobodies 1 
The Colonel; Excuse me, madam; it is not at all nice! I 'have not the honour to be Major Dashwood, 
consequently must be one of the nobodies. 











































**1f3car^ tneloDies are sweet, but those unbeard are sweeter/' 

From the Picture by Francis II. Williams, 





4 ' 

IS® 

SM( 

Ml. 


SEAL OF THE EAST INDIA COMPANY. 


r'l^HE story of tlie English in India is one 

I of the most inarvellons and fascinating 
in the world, no matter from what 
point of view it be regarded. It began 
almost exactly three hundred years ago ; for 
though the first English East India Company 
was organised in 1599, it did not become 
what may be called a going concern till the 
following year. The first expedition sailed 
from AYoolwich in the spring of IGOl, 
Captain James Lancaster being in chief 
command. 

If I had my way, I should have models, 
designed with such accuracy as may be 
possible, of the ships composing that 
expedition set np in every school in these 
Islands as object-lessons to onr children, to 
help them to rememher and appreciate the 
beginning of the wonderful story, and to 
teach them that thus and thus was an 
Empire far greater than that of Koine at 
its mightiest founded by our forefathers. 

There were in all five ships in Captain 
Lancaster’s fleet, and their total burthen was 
only something like 1,400 tons. The largest 
was the Mare Scourge —sometimes spoken of 
as the Malice Scourge^ and, later, re-christened 
the Red Dragon —a vessel of GOO tons, pur¬ 
chased at a cost of £3,700, and having on 
board a company of 200 men. The smallest 
ship was not much bigger than a fair-sized 
lugger, and it was called the Gidft. The 
remaining three, the Hector^ the Great Susan, 
and the Assention, were about half the size 
of the Mare Scourge, the first carrying 100, 
and the other two each 80 men. The whole 
cost of the five ships was Avell under £10,000. 
Out of them has grown our Empire in India. 
It is an amazing thing—is it not ? 

October, 1900. 


THE INDIA 
OFFICE. 

Bv ROBERT MACHRAY. 

Photographs hy C, Pllkington. 


India, conquered for us by generations of 
merchant adventurers and seamen like James 
Lancaster, remains to-day the most unique 
and the most interesting as well as the most 
important possession of the British race. 
India has always been a name to conjure 
with. The thought of its wealth and its 
wonders haunted the dreams of the ancients, 
and lay like a spell upon the mind of the 
Middle Ages. The search for, the endeavour 
to find a way to it by sea led to the re¬ 
discovery of South Africa and of America. 
It has been the scene of some of the most 
remarkable achievements, not only in war, but 
also in peace, of our soldiers and statesmen. 
For many a long year it has poured a golden 
flood into this country. Last century it 
created, enriched, and in some cases led to 
the ennoblement of our middle classes. 



ARMS OF THE EAST INDIA COMPANY. 

2 L 2 


483 














484 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



India—the rich, the wonderful, the glow¬ 
ing, the magnificent, the mysterious ! 

On the occasion of the second visit I paid 
to the India Office, in the interests of the 
Windsor Magazine, I was introduced to a 
noble visitor just arrived from India who is 
revered and regarded as a god. A quiet, 
well-spoken, self-possessed man, in the dress 
of an English gentleman, with the manner 
and even the appearance of a European, and 
yet one wliom multitudes of his followers all 
over the East implicitly believe is a divinity 
—believe it so absolutely that they contribute 
for his support a portion of all their 
possessions, amounting to £100,000 a year ! 
In connection with what country on the 
globe could this have happened save with 
India ? Just think of it. I was sitting 
talking to one of the high officials, there 
was a knock at the door, and this ]^ersouage 
entered. I was introduced to his Highness, 
who talked about this tiling or that, as might 
happen. A pleasant, courteous gentleman— 
and yet to thousands he is very god ! It 
Avould be preposterous, impossible, incredible, 
ridiculous, but for India, where almost any¬ 
thing may be ti-ue and possible and important 
beyond all Avords. 

Amongst the great offices of State the 
India Office is as unique as the Indian 
Empire itself is among the possessions of the 
British. It sums up in itself, in its A^arious 


departments, all the 
functions of the 
Gfovernment of 
India—finance, war, 
marine, foreign 
affairs, and so on. 
It does not cost our 
ratepayers a far¬ 
thing, the entire 
expense, which 
amounts to£150,000 
annually, being de¬ 
frayed out of the 
revenues of India. 
The A^ery building, 
or rather that por¬ 
tion of it in AAdiich 
the India Office is, 
has been paid for 
from the same 
revenues. 

The real seat of 
the Government of 
India is not Cal¬ 
cutta, but the India 
Office in London. 
Just as, in the days 
of the East India Company, India AA^as ruled 
from Leadenhall Street, so uoav from St. 
James’s Park are its affairs directed and 
controlled. Indeed, the India Office is an 
evolution, not an innoAntion. First there 
Avere the committees of merchant adA^enturers, 
Avho Avere traders Avith exclusiA^e privileges 
derived from charters giA^en and reneAved from 
time to time by the CroAAUi. In 1784 an Act 
Avas passed placing the Company in direct 
subordination to a body representing the 
British Government. The body consisted of 
a Boaid of six commissioners, usually knoAvn 
as the Board of Control. In 1813 the trade 
of India was throAvn open to all British 
subjects, aud this necessarily modified the 
commercial character of the Company. 
TAventy years later the Company ceased its 
connection Avith trade altogether. When the 
charter AAns reneAved for the last time, the 
right of nominating their civil serAvants Avas 
taken from the Board of Control, and a 
system of open competition Avas introduced. 
In 1858 the CroAvn assumed the direct 
administration of India, and the great Com¬ 
pany became a thing of the past. The 
President of the Board of Control Avas trans¬ 
formed into a Secretary of State, and the 
Board itself was replaced by a Council of 
fifteen members, eleven of AAdiom liad been 
Directors of the Company. The staff of the 
East India House in Leadenhall Street, and 






THE INDIA OFFICE, 


485 




of the liucird of Control, luitiirally formed 
the staff of the first India Office, Avhicli, 
after a period of delay, was housed in that 
huge, imposing, but somewhat sombre quad¬ 
rangular pile of buildings where are also the 
Foreign Office, the Colonial Office, and the 
Home Office, the general design of which 
was the work of Sir Gilbert Scott. 

The India Office shares with, the Foreign 
Office the site made beautiful by the trees 
and the ornamental water at the south¬ 
western corner of St. James’s Park. The 
outward appearance of the edifice is not 
marked by any elaborate design or system of 
decoration ; it is, trutli to tell, rather too 
dully solid looking. Its interior, however, 
might well be described as vast, and is 
specially noteworthy for its long and lofty 
corridors, fine staircases, aiid handsome rooms. 
The ornamentation of the ceilings, consisting 
in modellings of Indian fruits and flov/ers, 
tlie work of Sir Higby AYyatt, is unfortunately 
in nothing more enduring than plaster. 
One of the chief features of the India Office, 
speaking architecturally, is a courtyard, shut 
ill on all sides, and covered over with a roof 
of glass and iron, forming an inner quad¬ 
rangle, where the Sultan of Turkey, when 
he visited this country some years ago, was 
entertained by the then Secretary of State. 
Hut so far as I can hear, it has never been 
used for any great function since, and now 
presents a decidedly uninteresting and even 
desolate aspect. 


HEAD OK THE OKAND STAIRCASE. 


STATUE OK WARREN HASTINCiS. 


The India Office, unlike its neighbour, the 
Foreign Office, has many pictures and statues, 
some of Avhich are very valuable. It formerly 
possessed a huge number of 
articles which were genuine 
treasures of art, but they 
were removed to the India 
Museum at South Ken¬ 
sington. 

The principal staircase is 
adorned with statues of some 
of the remarkable men whose 
names are for ever associated 
with the conquest or the 
go\^ernment of India, such 
as Clive, Lawrence, Welling¬ 
ton, the Marquess of Welles¬ 
ley, Cornwallis, and Eyre 
Coote. At the foot of the 
north - west staircase is a 
statue of AYarren Hastings, 
by Flaxman, and nearly 
opposite the entrance from 
the quadrangle is a marble 
bust of AYellington, by Tur- 
nerelli. And here, perhaps, 
I should say that all these 
memorials of the past be- 














48G 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


longed to the old Compaiij, as did most of 
the oil paintings in the Office. An exception 
to til is rule is to he found in a plaster bust 
of the Queen, Avhich stands in the Council 
reading - room, and which has quite an 
interesting history. It formed the model 
for the head and shoulders of the well-known 
statue by Matthew Noble, presented to the 
city of Bombay by the Caekwar Khanderao 
of Baroda, which Avas subseipiently spoiled 
by some fanatical natives. The bust, after 
the sculptor’s death, was purchased from 
the widow and presented to the Office by 
Sir George Birdwood, through Avhom the 
commission for. the original statue had been 
given. 

There are paintings or prints in nearly all 


the larger rooms and in the corridors. In 
the Secretary of State’s room, a chamber of 
irregular shape, there is displayed a set of 
miniatures by Indian artists, painted about 
the beginning of the present century, of the 
twelve Emperors of Dcllii, and of Nadir 
Shah, who ovcrtlirew the M'oguls. The 
Council-room is the most interesting apart¬ 
ment in the building. Its splendid doors of 
dark mahogany, and its great mantelpiece 
of marble, Avere brought from the old East 
India House in Leadenhall Street, as Avere 
also the tables. Behind an elaborately carved 
chair of state or throne, on Avhich the Chief 
Secretary, as President of the Council, sits, 
is a life-sized portrait of Warren Hastings 


as he appeared Avhile Governor of Bengal. 
Paintings of other Empire-builders, in the 
person of the Marquess of ATellesley, brother 
of the Iron Duke, of LaAvrence, “ the 
Father of the Indian Army ” (the Avork of 
Sir Joshua Reynolds), of CoriiAvallis, the 
compeer of Hastings, and of Sir Eyre Coote, 
the conqueror of the French in India, look 
doAvn from the canA-as on the deliberations 
of Avhat may be termed the Cabinet of our 
Eastern Empire. 

It is, of course, impossible to enumerate in 
detail the other pictures to be seen at the 
India Office, but I must find space to mention 
a feAV of the more striking. In the Finance 
Committee-room there hangs the full-length 
portrait of Napoleon, Avhich Marshal Soult, 
Avhen he saAV it at the India 
House in 1888, thought so 
marvellous a likeness that on 
contemplating it for some 
time he AA^as moved to tears. 
On the main staircase, high 
up in the building, there are 
life-size portraits of Napoleon 
III. and of the Empress 
Eugenie, in massive frames 
surmounted by the Imperial 
Arms of France, which AAxre 
presented by the Emperor to 
the East India Conq)any in 
acknoAvledgment of their con¬ 
tributions to the Paris Exhi¬ 
bition of 1855. Among the 
portraits of Orientals, the 
most interesting are those of 
Fath Ali Shah in the Revenue 
Committee-room, and of Tipu 
Sultan in the Finance Com¬ 
mittee-room, Avhere is also 
exhibited an historical paint¬ 
ing of considerable import¬ 
ance—that of Shah Alam, 
the Great Mogul, coiiA^eying the grant of the 
Diwani, or fiscal administration, of Bengal, 
Behar, and Orissa, to Clive, at Allahal)ad, in 
17 ()5. 

In the room of the Permanent Under- 
SL'cretary of State, Sir Artluir Godley, there 
hangs on either side of the fireplace a series 
of engravings of the noblemen and gentle¬ 
men AAdio liaA'C held the high position of 
Secretary of State for India since 1858, 
amongst them being the Marquess of 
Salisbury, Lord Randolph Churchill, the 
Duke of DeAmnshire, the Duke of Argyll, 
the Earl of Kimberley, and the jMarquess 
of Ripon, The present Secretary is Lord 
George Hamilton. 





THhJ INDIA OFFICE. 


487 




SIK HORACE WALPOLE, K.C.B., ASSISTANT UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE FOR INDIA. 


All ciiionyinoiis 
writer in British 
Indian Commerce 
for Jamiaiy, 1891), 
who is evidently 
well acquainted with 
Lord George, says 
of him— 

“ As one sees a 
slight tigiire, clad 
in faultless fashion, 
with head erect and 
face bearded, the 
hair turning slightly 
grey, flitting along 
the corridors, re¬ 
ceived witli respect¬ 
ful salutes by every 
passing oilicial, yon 
cannot fancy that 
it is that most im¬ 
portant ]iersonage, 
the Secretary of 
State. ‘Lord 
George,’ whispers 
the official, as yon look inquisitively at him. 
Everybody in the India Office has the 
kindliest of words for ‘ fiOrd George.’ The 
most imostentatioiis of men, he is the most 
hard-working and devoted of State Secretaries. 
Although he exercises it firmly, he gives you 


no outward sign of his great office, for he is 
the most amiable and modest of men. There 
have been Secretaries of State who knew 
nothing of India nor of Indian affairs, for, 
as they were only politicians, they were com¬ 
pelled to rely upon the officials of the India 
Office for both 
knowledge and 
guidance. Lord 
George is not a 
Secretary of that 
type. He aims at 
being an efficient 
and a conscientious 
ruler of our great 
Eastern Empire. 
He accomplishes his 
aim quietly and 
w i t h 0 u t m u c h 
parade of policy; 
but then he has 
rare ([ualifications 
for his high posi¬ 
tion. He knows the 
India Ollice and its 
ways, and almost 
every official cm- 
]i 1 0 y e d there. 
Eefore he became 
Secretary of State, 
Lord George spent 
many years as 
Under-Secretary. 
In that post it was 


LORD GEORGE HAMILTON, SECRETARY OF STATE FOR INDIA. 














488 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



MKDAI.LTON OK WAKltEN IIA.STIXGS. 


Ill's duty to supervise the details of adminis¬ 
tration, and thus he served a splendid 
apprenticeship in Indian government. 

“ He was a very industrious apprentice. 
He is a very industrious master. You will 
find him generally at the India Office at 
11 a.m., and while Parliament is sitting 
often very much earlier. He probably lea^^es 
the House of Commons in the small hours of 
the morning—sometimes calls at the India 
Office on his way home, if important tele¬ 
grams are expected—and will be found 
comfortably seated in the Secretary of 
State’s room by 10 a.m.” 

This is the man, then, who at the present 
moment is the real ruler of India under the 
Crown. To aid him in this great work he 
has the advice of the body known as the 
Council of India. 

This Council, Avhich Avhen it Avas first 
constituted consisted of fifteen members, now 
numbers twelve. Originally the memliers 
were a])pointed for life, but now for a period 
of ten years, and they each Ikia’c a salary of 
£1,200 a. year. According to the Act of 
Parliament, the Council, five making a 
quorum, must meet once eA-ery Aveek in the 
year ; nor has it failed to do so since its 
inception. When it Avants a little holiday, 
it arranges to meet on the Monday of one 
week and on the Saturday of the week 
following. The position of member of the 


Council is in the gift of the Secretary of 
State, and those selected are for the most 
part old Anglo-Indians of ripe experience. 
Their functions are consultative rather than 
executiA^e. The Secretary of State in 
Council has the entire control of the 
expenditure of the re Avenues of India, 
and no grant or appropriation of those 
revenues can be made Avithont the con¬ 
currence of a majority of votes at a meeting 
of the Council. It Avill be readily understood 
that the provision of the Government of 
India Act places great poAver in the hands of 
the Council. 

It must be noticed in passing that the 
composition of the Council includes members 
of both the great political parties, ConserAma¬ 
tive and Liberal. The Secretary of State 
for the time being is of course a politician 
belonging to the party in poAver, and the 
mixed political character of his Council 
cannot fail to be of great service in the 
debates and discussions Avhich must neces¬ 
sarily arise on points he submits to it. Hor 
must it be overlooked that the members of 
the India Council are men Avhose careers in 
administrative departments in India make 
them rather rejwesentatives of Indian opinion 
and experience than exponents of either of 
the tAvo political parties. 

Although the Council meets but once a 
week, the duties of its members impose upon 
them an almost daily attendance at the 
India Office. The Council is subdivided 
into committees, each of AAdiich is in close 
connection Avith one of the Departments— 
Finance, Military, Eevenue, Public Works, 




THE ORTGTNAE OlIAUTERS AND TALLY STICKS OF 
THE EAST INDIA COMPANA'. 




THE INDIA OFFICE, 


480 


etc., as the case may he. If Lord George’s 
Council be likened to a Cabinet, then each 
member discharges functions analogous to 
those of a Minister. When any question of 
importance is brought before the Council, 
the papers arc as a rule placed in a box for a 
week for the perusal of the various members. 
At the meeting of the Council the following 
week the papers are again brought up and 
discussed, and if there is a difference of 
opinion, a division is taken and the matter 
is finally decided. 

Each meml)er of tlie Council has a room 
at the India Ctfice, and they have in addition 
a common reading-room—it is a good deal 
like a room in a club—furnished wifcli easy- 
chairs, books of refer¬ 
ence, and tlie leading 
English and Indian daily 
and other papers and 
periodicals. 

The India Office, like 
tlie rest of the great 
Government offices, has 
its regular staff of civil 
servants, who have ob¬ 
tained their positions in 
the first instance by 
success in the usual way 
in competitive examina¬ 
tions open to everybody 
in the country. Tlie 
staff, including all 
grades, numbers about 
three Imndrcd, and the 
appointments are for life 
or until the age-limit 
has been reached. At 
the head of ail is the 
l^ermanent Under-Sec¬ 
retary of State, who is 
seconded by the Parlia- 
inentary Under-Secretary and an Assistant 
LInder-Sccretary of State. 

Sir Arthur Godley, K.C.B., a Rugby and 
Oxford man, has been Permanent Under¬ 
secretary since 1883. A barrister by pro¬ 
fession, he began public life as private 
secretary to the First Lord of the Treasury in 
1872. During his occupancy of his high 
position he has elfected several changes, 
which have resulted in the Ofiice being 
worked more economically than Avas the 
case previously. The present Parliamentary 
Under-Secretary is the Earl of Onslow, who 
is very well known in connection with the 
London County Council. He was Under¬ 
secretary for the Colonies in 1887, and 
Governor of New Zealand from 1881) to 


1892. When questions are asked in the 
blouse of liords with respect to India, they 
are answered by Lord Onslow—in the House 
of Commons by the Minister himself, Avho, 
as everybody knows, is the Member for 
Ealing. The Assistant Under-Secretary, Sir 
Horace Walpole, K.C.B., has been at the 
India Office for some thirty-seven years 
—a long record of public service. He 
commenced as a temporary clerk in 1862, 
and has served in various departments of 
the Office, and besides being Assistant 
Under-Secretary is also Clerk of the India 
Council. 

The business of the India Office is divided 
up amongst several Departments, of Avhich 


incidental mention has already been made. 
Every communication — I understand that 
about a hundred thousand letters are re¬ 
ceived in the course of each year—goes first 
of all to a central registry, from Avhich, after 
it has been entered into an enormous index, 
it is sent on to the proper Department. 
Every letter despatched from the Office has 
to be registered at this Imreau before being 
posted or delivered. To inakc this system 
less onerous, however, there is a bi’anch 
of the registry in each Department. On 
the Avhole the business of the India Office 
does not increase, lait may be said to be 
stationary—this comes from public business 
in India itself having been got into well- 
established order. As a corollary, the 



KIR ARTHUR fJODUKY, K.C.R., PERMANKNT T NDKIt-KECRKTARY OE STATE FOR INDIA. 














41)0 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



TIIK READING ROOM, WITH STATUE OE THE QUEEN. 


iiii]nl)C3rs of tlic staff in 8t. Jaines’s Park 
remain pretty inncli the same. 

Of the Departments, the Financial is, 
perhaps, one of the most important, as it 
represents tlie Treasury and the Chancellor 
of the Exchequer of the Indian Empire. 
The Government of India has to report its 
expenditure, beyond certain limits, to tlie 
Secretary of State, who deals ^vith tlie matter 
through this Department, which is also 
charged Avith the raising and the paying off 
of loans in the London money-market, and 
Avith financing India generally. At the 
liead of the Finance Department is Sir 
Henry AYaterfield, K.C.S.I. 

The IMilitary Department, presided over 
by Major-General Sir E. Steelman, K.C.I.E., 
is the War Office of India. Here epiestions 
affecting our own soldiers in India (aa'Iio, by 
the way, are entirely supported by tlie India’n 
Government so long as they serve in that 
country) or the Native Indian Army, are 
dealt with as they arise, but of course the 
Imperial AAhir Office must also have some¬ 
thing to say in such matters. Hut to this 
Department, or, rather, perha|)s I should say, 
to the jMilitary Committee, all the military 
reports, Avhether they relate to the adminis- 
tratioii ol the Army, its maintenance, or its 
operations, are relegated for opinion, censure, 
or classification. And Avhile speaking of this 
committee I should like to say that I found 
tAvo of the most interesting memorials of the 


vanished East India 
Company in the 
chamber Avhere it 
holds it sittings, in 
the shape of a couple 
of torn, ragged, and 
tattered flags (they 
usually hang above 
the door) Avliich be¬ 
longed to the Com¬ 
pany’s Volunteers, 
the men Avho helped 
to Avin our Empire 
in the East. 

The Political and 
Secret Department, 
of which Sir AV. Lee- 
AAhirner, K.C.S.I., is 
chief, corresponds to 
the Foreign Office 
of the imperial 
Government. It 
takes cognisance of 
everything that 
affects, or is likely 
to affeefc, India from 
outside. It keeps a Avatchful eye on Avhat is 
going on in the Native States in the Penin¬ 
sula, in Afghanistan, in Persia, in Asiatic 
Russia, in Siam, and other neighbouring 
countries. The Judicial and Public Depart¬ 
ment and the Public AVorks Department, on 
the other hand, look after the internal affairs 
of India. The former has to do Avith the 
legislative action of the several Governments 
of India, and Avith ecclesiastical, educational, 
and general matters of administration, in¬ 
cluding appointments coming under those 
heads, as well as to the Covenanted Civil 
Service ; the latter is responsilile for the 
development of the resources of India by 
railAAmys and telegraphs, by irrigation Avorks, 
and the like. The chief of the Judicial 
Departinent is Sir Charles Lyall, K.C.S.I.; the 
head of Public AVorks is Air. E. Leel, C.I.E. 

Other Departments are those of ReAmnne 
•and Statistics, under Sir Charles Bernard, 
K.C.S.I. ; the Accountant-General, Edward 
R. Cave-BroAvne, C.S.I. ; the Fiiiids; the 
Registry and Records ; and the Store De¬ 
partment. The last-named, I am told, 
spends annually in this country something 
like tAvo million ])ounds on guns, accouti-e- 
ments, and stores of all kinds. 

One of the most interesting of these 
Departments, from a popular point of vieAv, 
is certainly the Registry and Record, under 
the superintendence of Air. A. AA^ollaston, 
C.I.E. A great part of the basement of the 













THE INDIA OFFICE. 


4‘)1 




from the illustration, hi appearance it is 
nothing more or less than a long, narrow 
piece of wood with notches 
cut on it, and it would 
scarcely l)e surmised that it 
is a recci])t for money paid, 
each notch standing for 
pounds, tens of pounds, 
hundreds of pounds, and 
thousands of pounds, accord¬ 
ing to the size of the ])ar- 
ticular iiotcli on the stick. 
Originally the piece of wood 
was just twice the size, ])nt 
on the account being settled 
the stick was split into halves, 
each ])arty to the transaction 
retaiidng a half as a voucher, 
the notclies standing for so 
many lignres. If any dis- 
])nte arose afterwards as to 
the amount, the two pieces 
were fitted together and the 
evidence they furnished was 
conclusive if they tallied — 


building is a maze, a perfect labyrinth of 
passages between walls formed by iron racks, 
tilled with cases containing the records of 
the old Company and of the India Office 
itself. There must be many miles of these 
books and documents, from which, it must 
be confessed, there proceeds a very ancient 
and musty smell. But what au accumula¬ 
tion of materials for the history of the 
British in India there is here ! 

During the earlier years of the East India 
Company 1)ut little care seems to have been 
taken of the originals of the charters which 
conferred its privileges upon it, and only 
copies of the very oldest are to be seen in 
the muniment-room of the India Office. 
Amongst the original documents which, have 
been preserved are an interesting letter—a 
kind of “ letter of credence ”—from James I., 
a charter signed by Oliver Cromwell, and 
more than one charter granted by Charles II. 
One of the last-named, covering six large 
slieets of vellum, has been mutilated, the 
ornamental borders, the portrait of the King, 
and the Arms of the Company having been 
cut out by some unknown (xoth. Two other 
charters of this sovereign’s have admirable 
etchings of the Merry Monarch. Perhaps 
what struck me most in the inuniment- 
room were the tally-sticks,” of which a 
considerable number have been collected. 

The tally-stick deserves a paragraph to 
itself, jis an institution it is, of course, 
quite obsolete, but it only disappeared at the 
beginning of the present century. What it 
exactly was will be most easily understood 


THE COUNCIL CIIAMliEK. 
























402 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


hence the modern word. Tlie stick with ten 
notches on it was the receipt to the Company 
for the £10 it paid yearly to the king as rent 
for tlie island of Bombay. 

In the India Office there are no less than 
three hnndred rooms, but considerations of 
space forbid any further description of them. 
The library, however, which is placed at the 
top of the building, is said to be better 
furnished with books and papers relating to 
India than any library in that country itself. 
I understand that permission to make use of 


it can be readily obtained on ap|)lication to 
the authorities. 

In conclusion I desire on behalf of the 
Windsor to thank Lord George Hamilton 
for his courteous permission to go over 
the India Office and to have pliofographs 
taken. I am indebted also to Sir Arthur 
God ley and Sir Horace Walpole for their 
kind assistance, and in a special manner 
to Sir George Birdwood, ILC.I.E., who 
Avas good enough to act as my guide and 
cicerone. 



■nil-: OIJ) (iAKDKX. 

From the pklure by Fred nines. 







YOUNG BARBARIANS. 

Bv IAN MACLAEEN.* 

Illustrated hy Harold Copping. 


No. y.—A PLEASANT SIN. 


ATHEE cap¬ 
tious people, 
such as 
ministers of 
religion and 
old maids of 
the precise 
kind, no 
doubt con¬ 
sidered that 
the Semin- 
a r y w ere 
guilty of 
many sins and mentioned them freely ; but 
those excellent people erred through lack of 
vision. Hunting mice in Moossy’s class¬ 
room, putting the Dowbiggin’s clothes into 
a state of thorough repair, raiding the terri¬ 
tory of the “ Pennies,” having a stand-up 
fight between two well-matched champions, 
say, once a month, and “ ragging ” Mr. Byles, 
might have an appearance of evil, but were 
in reality disguised virtues, feeding the high 
spirit of those who were active, and teaching 
the Christian grace of meekness to those who 
were passive. There was only one act which 
the Seminary knew it ought not to do, and 
which all tlie boys wanted to do, which they 
enjoyed very much in doing, and were quite 
willing to be punished for doing. The 
besetting sin of a school—a country school— 
which will remain its sin until the days of 
the millennium have fairly set in, was playing 
truant. 

This crime was equivalent to high treason 
in the State, and consisted in a boy absenting 
himself from school without the knowledge 
of his parents, and without the consent of 
his master, for a day or half of a day. The 
boy did not disappear because he was ill, for 
he was on such occasions outrageously well; 
nor because he was overburdened by work, 
for the truants always guarded themselves 
against brain fag ; nor because he wanted to 
hang about the streets, or smoke in secret 


* Copyriglit, 1900, by John Watson, in the United 
States of America. 


places. He was simply seized with the 
passion of the open air and of the country. 
To tramp through the bosky woods, hunting 
for birds’ eggs and watching the ways of 
wild animals ; to guddle for trout under the 
stones of some clear running mountain burn, 
or to swim in the cool water on a summer 
day, or to join the haymakers on a farm, and 
do a full day’s work, as lon^ as lesson time 
and harder. There was a joy in escaping 
from bounds, as if an animal had broken out 
from a menagerie ; there Avas joy in thinking, 
as you lay beside your burn or under the 
shadoAV of a tree, of the fellows mewed up in 
the hot class-room and SAvatting ait their 
sums, under Bulldog’s eye; and joy in 
coming home in the eAuning, tired, bnt 
satisfied, and passing the empty Seminary 
AAdtli defiance. There is no joy—mean sin 
—but has its draAvbacks, and there were 
clouds in the truant’s sky. Country folk 
had their oAvn suspicions AAdien they came on 
a couple of boys going at large on a Avorking 
day, AA’hen the school Avas in session, as one 
might Inwe a shreAA’d guess if he came upon 
tAvo convicts in their professional dress fish¬ 
ing in some lonely spot on Dartmoor. But 
there is a charitable sympathy Avith all 
animals who have escaped from a cage, 
unless it be a tigress looking for her dinner, 
and no one Avould have thought of informing 
on the boys, except one bad inan ; and Provi¬ 
dence, using Spiug as an instrmnent, punished 
him for his evil doings—as I shall tell. 

“ Well, laddies,” some honest farmer AA'ould 
say, as he came upon tliem sitting by the 
burnside eating bread and cheese and 
counting up their trout, “ I’m judgin’ it 
Avill be a holiday at the Seminary the noAv, or 
mebbe the maister’s given you a day’s leave 
for your health. Or is this the reAvard for 
doing your Avork so AA^ell ? Ye have all the 
appearance of scholars.” And then the good 
man Avould laugh at the simple raillery and 
the confusion of the boys. 

“ Dinna answer, laddies ; for least said 
soonest mended, and ye mind Avhere leears go 
to. But I’m think in’ you Avadna be the 


493 

















4!)4 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



“ The four had to drop down and crawl along through the thick grass.” 


Avorse for a Jug of milk to wash down your 
dir.Tier, and tliere’s some strawberries iu tlie 
garden up by, just about ripe.” 

8o they all went up to tlie farm kitchen 
and liad a glorious tuck iu, and Avere after- 
Avards turned loose among the straAvberries, 
Avliile tlie farmer AA'atched them Avith keen 
delight and a remembrance of past days. 
AVhose place in HeaA^en for such deeds of 
charity is already secure. 

The authorities at home Avere not so 
lenient, and the experienced ti’imnt Avas care¬ 
ful, Avlien he could, to time his arrival home 
about five o’clock in the afternoon, Avhich 
alloAA’ed for the school hours and one hour 
more of special confinement. According to 
the truant’s code he Avas not alloAved to tell 
a lie about his escapade, either at home or at 
school, but he Avas not obliged to offer a full 
and detailed statement of the truth. If his 
father charged him Avitli being kept in at 
school for not having done his Avork, and 
rebuked him for his laziness, he allowed it to 
go at that, and did not accuse his father of 
inaccuracy. When, however, a boy Avas by 
habit and repute a truant, his father learned 
by experience and Avas apt to Avatch him 
narroAvly. If the boy had an extra touch of 
the sun on his face, and his clothing Avas 
disorderly beyond usual, and his manner AA^as 
especially unobtrusive, and his anxiety to 
please every person quite remarkable, and if 
in moments of unconsciousness he seemed to 
be clieAving the cud of some recent pleasure, 
the father Avas apt to subject him to a 


searcliing cross-examination. And his 
mother had to beg the boy off Avith many a 
plea, such as mothers know Itoav to use ; and 
if the others did not succeed, and the appeal 
to tlie heart was in vain, she could ahvays 
send the good man back upon his memory, 
and put it to his conscience Avhether he 
ought to visit too severely upon his son the 
sin the boy had inherited from himself. 

It Avas next morning that the truant really 
paid for his pleasure ; and the price Avas sharp, 
for there was no caning to be compared Avith 
that Avhich folloAved a day in the country. 
It Avas a point of honour that no boy slioukl 
shoAv distress ; but even veterans bit their lips 
as the cane fell first on the right hand and 
then on the left, and right across the palm, 
and sometimes doubling on the back of the 
hand, if the cane AA^as young and flexible. 
Spiug, though a man of Avar and able to 
endure anything, used to warm his hands at 
the fire, if the Aveather Avas cold, l)efore going 
in to the inquisition, and after he had 
received a SAvitching of the first order he 
Avould go doAvn to the lade and cool his 
hands in the running AA^atei’. It Avas an 
interesting spectacle to see four able-bodied 
sinners, Avho 3xsterday had given themselves 
to the study of Xature, noAV kneeling 
together, to cool their hands in our AA'aters 
of Lethe ; but you must remember that they 
made no moan before the boys, and no com¬ 
plaint against the master. The school 
received them Avith respect when they came 
out, and Spiug Avould indicate Avith a Avink 


A PLEASANT SliW 


495 


and a jerk of his head tliat Bulldog had 
exceeded himself; hut he was not to be 
trifled Avith for an hour or two, and if any 
ill-mannered cub ventured to come too near 
when Peter was giving his hands a cold bath, 
the chances are that Peter gave the cub a 
bath, too, ‘‘ just to teach him to be looking 
where he had no business.” 

Possibly fear of consequences might 
hinder some Aveak-hearted boys, but it never 
prevented any of the hardy ruffians from 
having their day out Avhen the fever seized 
them. Playing truant Avas the same thing 
for a boy as bolting for a high-spirited horse ; 
done once, the animal is bound to try it 
again, and to both, the joy of their respective 
sins must be very much the same. Boys did 
not plan a Aveek ahead and then go astray in 
cold blood, because this sin Avas not an act 
of malice aforethought—it Avas a sudden 
impulse, not a matter of the will so much as 
of the blood. Had one determined on 
Tuesday night to take Wednesday, it might 
have turned out in our fickle climate a 
cheerless day, AAdien a boy AA^ould as soon be 
playing marbles in the breaks, or cricket in 
the dinner-hour, or, for that matter, amusing 
himself in Moossy’s class. No ; a boy rose in 
the morning ready to go to school, Avithout a 
thought of Avood or Avater—arranging his 
marbles, in fact, for the day, and planning 
how to escape a lesson he had not prepared ; 
but he AA^as helpless against Nature if she set 
herself to tempt him. No sooner had he 
put his nose outside the door than the 
summer air, sweet and fresh, began to play 
upon his face and reminded him of a 
certain Avood. As he Avent through the 
streets of the toAvn, a glimpse of the river, 
steely blue that morning in the sunshine, 
brought up a pool AA'here a fat trout AA^as 
sure to be lying. As he crossed the North 
MeadoAV, the Avind Avas blowing free from the 
Highlands* and AA^as laden Avith the scent of 
hay and flowers, and sent his blood a-tingling. 
The books upon his back grcAV Avocfully 
heavy, and the Seminary reminded him of 
the city gaol froAvning out on the fields Avith 
its stately and unrelenting face. He loitered 
by the lade and saAv the clear AA^ater running 
briskly, and across the meado ay he could catcli 
a glimpse of the river, and in the distance 
the Kilspindie Woods Avith their mysterious 
depths, and rising high aboA-e the houses on 
the other side AA^as the hill Avhere he spent last 
Saturday. The bell rings and he goes in, 
but not to Avork ; the river is running 
through his heart, and the greenery is 
before his eyes, and the Avind coming in 


puffs through the open Avindow awakens the 
instinct of the Avild animal in his breast and 
invites him to be free. Spiug has a slate 
before him, hut he is not piebending to do 
anything, he is looking out on the meadoAv, 
and sniffing the air, just like a horse about 
to make its bolt. He catches lloAvieson’s 
eye and reads that Jock is ready. HoAvieson 
inquires by signal of Bauldie Avhether he 
prefers compound fractions to a SAvim, and 
Bauldie explains, also by signal, that, much as 
he loves fractions, he Avill be obliging that 
afternoon and join them in their SAvim. A 
fourth Avould complete the party ; and Avhen 
Spiug lifts his eyebroAVS AAith great dramatic 
art to ‘‘ Biggie ” Mitchell, three desks off, 
“ Biggie,” like the gallant spirit that he Avas, 
ansAA^ers Avith a nod that he Avill not be found 
Avanting. Not a Avord has been said, and no 
one Avill say “ Truant ” at any time, but at the 
next break the four separate themselves 
quietly and unobtrusively from their felloAA^s, 
and by the time the last boy has gone 
through the door, they are scudding across 
the meadoAV to Spiug’s stable-yard, Avhere 
they Avill make their preparations. Some¬ 
times nothing more is needed than a hunch 
of bread and some fish-hooks ; but as they 
ran Spiug had dropped the Avord Woody 
Island, and a day on Woody Island was a 
AA^ork of art. It lay a couple of miles above 
the town, long and narroAV, formed Avith a 
diA'ision of the river into its main current 
and a sluggish backAvater. It Avas covered 
Avith dense brushAvood, except Avhere here 
and there a patch of green turf was left bare, 
and the island Avas indented Avith little bays 
Avhere the river rippled on clean sand and 
gravel. It AA^as only a little island, but yet 
you could lose yourself in it, so thick AAvas 
the AVOod and so mazy, and then you had to 
find your comrades by signal; and it had 
little tracks through it, and there Avas one 
place Avhere you could imagine a hole in the 
bank to be a cave, and Avhere certainly tAvo 
boys could get out of sight if they lay very 
close together and did not mind being half 
smothered. When you Avent to Woody 
Island, and left the mainland, you Avere 
understood to blot out the Seminary and 
MuirtOAvn and Scotland and civilisation. 
Woody Island was someAvhere in the Avild 
West, and was still in the possession of the 
children of the forest; the ashes of their 
fires could be seen any day there, and you 
could come upon their AvigAvams in one of 
the open spots. There was a place where 
they had massacred three trappers and 
taken their scalps, and in that cave “ Bull’s- 


m THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


eve Cliarlie,” the famous Indian scout, 
lying curled up like a ball, and with only 
the mouth of his rifle peeping out, liad held 
twenty of the red-skinned braves at bay for 
a whole day. It was a fairy world in Avhich 
our Indian tales could be re})roduced upon 
the stage, and Ave ourselves could be the 
heroes we had so often admired. The 
equipment for the day consisted of four 
tomahaAvks (three axes out of small tool 
chests and one axe for breaking coals Avhich 
‘‘ Piggie ■’ used to steal for the day) tAvo 
pistols (one belonging to Bpiug and the 
other to Bauldie) ; a couple of toy rifles—not 
things for kids, mark you, but long rifles 


Avith bayonets, and which could fire caps ; 
tent, Avhich Avas in reality an old carriage 
cloth from Peter’s yard ; and a kettle for 
boiling water— I mean cooking the game— 
Avhich Jock HoAvieson abstracted from his 
kitchen. Each boy had to visit his home on 
pretence of returning for a book, and bring 
aAvay the necessary articles of Avar and as 
much food as he could steal from the pantry ; 
and then CA^erything, axes included, and, if 
possible, the rifles, had to be hidden aAvay 
about their persons until the four, skulking 
by back lanes, and se])arating from one 
another, reached the top of the North 
MeadoAv, after Avhich they Aveiit up the bank 



“ They brouglit it over safely to the other side. 






A PLEASANT SIN. 


497 


of the river, none daring to make them 
afraid. They Avere ont of bounds now, and 
the day was before them for weal or woe, 
and already Sping was changing into an 
Indian trapper, and giving directions about 
how they must deal Avith the Seminoles, 
Avhile HoAvieson had begun to speculate 
Avhether they Avould have a chance of meeting 
with the famous chief, Oceola. “ Piggie ” 
might AA^ant to try a cap on his rifle, but 
Spiug AA’Onld not alloAV him, because, although 
they had not yet entered the Indian territory, 
the crafty foe might have scouts ont on this 
side of the river, and in that case there Avas 
no hope of Woody Island. The Indians 
Avonld be in ambush among the trees on the 
bank, and the four Avould be shot doAvn as 
they crossed. 

Their first enemy, hoAA-eA^er, Avas not 
Oceola’s Indians, but a Avhite man—a 
renegade— aaAio, to his shame, AA^as in alliance 
Avith the Indians and Avas always ready to 
betray the trappers into their hands. This 
miscreant Avas a farmer on the maiidand, 
Avlio AA^as the tenant of Woody Island, and 
had a determined objection to any boys, or 
other saAdages, except, as I have said, tlie 
Seminole tribe living on the island, and Avho 
used to threaten pains and penalties against 
anyone Avhoin he caught on his land.' One 
ncA’er kneAv AA'heii he might be about, and it 
Avas absolutely necessary to reach the island 
without Ids notice. There Avas a day in the 
past Avhen Spiug used to Avatch till the 
farmer had gone into his midday dinner, 
and then creep along the bank of the river 
and ferry himself across Avith the other 
trappers in the farmer’s boat, Avliich he then 
Avorked round to the other side of the island 
and kept there for tlie return voyage in the 
eveidngj so that the farmer Avas helpless to 
reach the island, and could only address the 
unseen trespassers in opprobrious language 
from the bank, Avhich Avas sent back to him 
in faithful echo. This forenoon the farmer 
happened to be hoeing turnips Avith his 
people in a held opposite the island, and 
Spiug Avas delighted beyond measure, for 
noAV the four liad to drop doAvn and craAAd 
along through the thick grass by the river’s 
edge, aA^ailing themseh^es of every bush and 
little knoll till they lay, Avith all their arms, 
the tent, and the food, concealed so near the 
farmer that they could hear him speak and 
hear the click of the hoes as the people 
Avorked in their drills. If you raised your 
head cautiously and looked through betAveen 
the branches of a shrub, you could see him, 
and Bauldie actually covered him Avith his rifle, 


The unconscious farmer kneAv not that his 
life hung upon a thread, or, rather, upon 
Bauldie’s trigger. Bauldie looked inquiringly 
to his chief, for he AA^onld dearly have loved to 
Are a cap, but Spiug shook his head so fiercely 
that the trapper dropped doAvn in his lair, and 
Spiug afterAAards explained that the renegade 
had certainly deserved death, but that it Avas 
dangerous to fire Avith so many of his gang 
present, and the Seminoles on the other side 
of the river. By and by the farmer and his 
people had Avorked themselA^es to the other 
end of the field, and the trappers, having 
ascertained that there AA^ere no Indians watch¬ 
ing them, prepared to cross. Spiug, Avho 
had reached the boat, spoke out suddenly 
and unadvisedly, for the farmer had chained 
and padlocked the boat. It AA^ould not have 
mattered much to the boys in ordinary 
circumstances, for they avouIcI have stripped 
and SAvum across, and back again Avhen they 
Avere tired of the other side, for every one of 
them could SAvim like an otter ; but that day 
they Avere trappers, Avith arms, and food, and 
a tent, and poAvder Avhich must be kept dry, 
to say nothing of the kettle. There Avas a 
brief consultation, and Bauldie regretted that 
he did not shoot the farmer dead on the 
spot, and as many of his people as they 
could. Spiug, AA’lio had been proAvling 
around—thougli cautiously, mind you, and 
ever AA^atching for a sign of the Seminoles— 
gave a Ioav, mysterious Avhistle, Avhich was 
one of the signs among the trappers ; and, 
AA’lien the others joined him, he pointed and 
Avhispered, ‘‘ A Seminole canoe.” It AA^as an 
ancient boat Avhich the farmer’s father had 
used, and Avhich had lain for years npon the 
bank, unused. Its seats AA’ere gone, its 
planks Avere leaking, it had tAvo open holes 
at least in it, and there Avere no oars. It 
AAnis a thing AAdiich, in the farmer’s hand, 
Avould have sunk six yards from the shore, 
but it had the semblance of a boat, and it 
AA^as enough for the hardy trappers. Very 
carefully did they Avork it to the bank, lest 
it should slip a Avhole plank on the road, 
and very gently did they drop it in, lest the 
Seminoles sliould hear. “ Biggie ” stuffed 
one hole Avith his bonnet, and Bauldie the 
second Avith his ; Jock spread his jacket 
over an oozy part. They shipped all their 
stores, and one of them got in to bale, and 
the others, stripping off their clothes and 
adding them to the cargo of the boat, pushed 
out the boat before them, SAAumming by its 
side. It AA^as a mere question of time Avhether 
the boat Avonld go doAvn in mid-channel; 
but so splendidly did “ Biggie ” bale, ready 

2 M 


498 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


at any moment to swim for his life, and so 
powerfully did the others push, swimming 
with their feet and one hand, and with the 
other hand guiding the boat, that they 
brought it over safely to the otlier side ; and 
the fact tliat half their clothes were wet 
through mattered little to men wlio had often 
hidden from the Indians in the water, with 
nothing but their eyes and nose out; and, at 
any rate, the food was safe. The matches and 
the percussion caps also were dry, for “Piggie” 
had taken care of that, and, in the worst 
emergency, they would have been carried on 
the top of his liead if he also liad been 
obliged to swim. They brought the boat into 
a little creek, and, communicating by signs 
to one anotlier—for they were too old hunters 
to be speaking now, when there might be a 
party of Scmiiioles in that very wood—Spiug 
and Jock hid themselves, each behind a tree 
with rifle in hand, to cover the others, while 
“ Piggie ” and Bauldie drew the boat up 
under cover of the bushes, and hid it out of 
sight, so that even a Seminole’s keen eyes 
would not have been able to detect it. The 
trappers made a hiding-place beside the boat, 
and left there the superfluous garments of 
civilisation, confining themselves to a shirt 
and trousers, and a belt which holds the 
pistol and tomahawk. Spiug and Jock, as 
the two veterans Avho could discover the trail 
of the Seminolcs by a twisted leaf on a 
launch, or a broken stick on the ground, 
warned their friends to lie low, and they 
themselves disappeared into the brushwood. 
They had gone to scout, and to make 
sure that no wandering party of Indians was 
in the vicinity. By and by a wood-pigeon 
cooed three times, “ Piggie ” nodded to 
Bauldie, and Bauldie hooted like an owl, then 
they knew that it Avas safe to advance. The 
tAvo rejoined the scouts, AA'hom they found on 
the edge of a clearing, leaning on their rifles in 
a picturesque attitude. “ Bull’s-eye Charlie ” 
led, and the others folbAA-^ed, pausing noAv 
and again at a sound in the AA^oods, and 
once at a signal from “Bull’s-eye” they 
separated sAviftly, and each took up his 
position l)ehind a tree. But it Avas a false 
alarm. Then they Avent on as before, till 
they came to a pretty spot on the other side 
of the island, Avhere they made their camp, 
cutting a pole for the tent, lighting a Are, 
which they did Avith immense success, and 
proceeding to cook dinner. As they had 
been afraid to Are, for fear of attracting any 
AAundering Indian’s notice, they had no deer 
nor Avild turkey, Avhich, in other circum¬ 
stances^ Avould have been their food; but they 


made tea (very badly, and largely because 
they Avishecl to use the kettle), and they had 
bread and butter, AAdiich had turned into oil 
through the Avarmth of Bauldie’s person, a 
half ham AAdiich Spiug contributed, a pot of 
jam for Avhich “ Piggie ” Avill have to account 
some day, and six jam tarts which IIoAA'ieson 
bought AAith his last farthing, and AAdiich 
had been reduced practically to one in Jock’s 
pocket. Sparrow had managed tAVo bottles 
of stone ginger-beer, Avhich Avere deeply 
valued, and afforded them a big mouthful 
each, as they drank AAdthout any cup, and 
shared honestly by calculation of time. 

What a day they liad ! They fought 
Indians from one end of the island to tie 
other, killing and scalping tAventy-nine. 
They bathed in rhe quieter current on the 
otlier side, and they dried themselves in the 
sun, and in the sun they slept till they Aveie 
burned red ; and tlien just as they Avere 
thinking that it was time to go back to the 
camp and gather together their belongings 
and set off for home, Spiug gave a AApistle 
that had in it this time no pretence of 
danger, and bolted into the Avood, folloAved 
by the other three. Whether he had heard 
the flring, or the Seniinoles had sent a 
message, they never kneAv, but the farmer 
Avas on the island and proceeding in their 
direction through the brushAvood. Spiug 
did not think that he had seen them, and he 
Avoiild not quite knoA\’ Avhere they AA^ere, and 
in an instant that leader of men had formed 
Avhat he thought tlie best of all his plans. 
He gave his directions to the other three, aaJio 
executed a AA^ar-dance at the mere thought 
of the strategy, and then departed hurriedly 
for the camp ; but Spiug, who Avas naked, and 
not ashamed, started rapidly in an opposite 
direction, and just gave the farmer a glimpse 
of him as he hurried up the island. 

“Ye’re there, are ye, ye young black¬ 
guards ! Wait till I catch ye trespassin’, 
and lightin’ fires. I’ll be bound ; it’s Perth 
gaol ye’ll be in the nicht, or I’m no farmer 
of Middleton. Ye may hide if ye please, 
but I’ll And ye, and ye’ll no get the old 
boat to go back in, for I’A^e found that, as 
clever as ye thought yourselves, and knocked 
the bottom out o’ it.” 

It was tAA^enty minutes before he dis¬ 
covered Spiug, and then Spiug Avas standing 
on the edge of the Avater at the top of the 
island, AAdiere the current runs swift and 
strong tOAvards the other side. 

“ Was it me ye Avere seekin’ ? ” said Spiug, 
rosy red all over, but not Avith modesty. “ I 
thought I heard somebody crying. We’re 


A J^LFASASy^ SIX. 


490 



to see je on the island. Have ye come 
to l)atlie ? ” 

‘‘ Wait till I sjet a grip of ye, ye impident 
little deevil, and, my word. I’ll bathe ye,” 
and the farmer made for Sping. 


“ I’ll bathe mysel,” said Hping, when the 
farmer almost had his hands on him, and 
dived into the river, coming up nearly 
opposite the horrified farmer; and then, as he 
went down Avith the current which took him 




THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


noo 



over to tlie opposite side, lie invited the 
farmer to come in ; and vlien lie landed he 
hade the farmer good-bye with mucli 
courtesy, and hoped he would enjoy himself 
among his Indian fi’iends. 

“ Wait till I cross,” shouted the farmer, 
“ and I’ll be after ye, and though I ransack 
Mnirtown I’ll find ye out. Ye’re a gey like 
spectacle to go back to the town. lY’ll no 
escape me this time, whoever ye be,” and 
the farmer hurried down the island to his 
boat, which he had loosely fastened to one of 
the trees. AVhen he reached the spot there 
was no boat there, Imt he could see his 
boat lying in its accustomed place on the 
other side, chained and padlocked. For the 


‘‘ lie invited the 
fanner to come in.” 


other three 
trappers had 
gathered all 
their possessions 
and clothed 
themselves like 
gentlemen, and 
taking Sping’s 
clothes with 
them, ferried 
t li e m s e 1 V e s 
across with 
rapidity and 
dignity. Oiuic 
more Sping bade the farmer good-night, 
extending both hands to him in farewell, but 
mnv the one hand was in front of the other, 
and the thumb of the inner hand attached 
to Spiug’s nose. He thoughtfully offercid 
to take any message to Mnirtown Gaol or to 
the Provost that" the farmer desired, and 
departed, wishing him a pleasant night and 
telling him where he would find the shank 
of a ham. xVs Peter dressed himself, his 
friends could only look at him in silent 
admiration, till at the thought of the renegade 
trapped so neatly and confined for at least; a 
night on his own island, Howieson slapped 
his legs and cried. And the four returned 
to Mnirtown and to civilisation full of joy. 















^Tbe Gleaners. 






THE CANTERBURY ARCIII'HIY CLUB, ST. JOIIN’s GROUNDS, CANTERBURY, 


ARCHERY, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 

By Lilias Dawson. 


T he art of aiming and hitting is “as 
old as tlie hills,” and the use of the 
bow and arrow dates from patriarchal 
times. Assyrian sculpture and Egyptian 
hieroglyphics show that the people of these 
lands, as well as those of Thrace, Crete, and 
Parthia, were skilled archers. It is also 
extremely probable that the auxiliary troops 
of Borne were armed with bows and arrows, 
and we read that Doniitian and others were 
accomplished in the use of these weapons of 
war. Archery, although now only practised 
as a pastime in civilised countries, is still in 
active use among the Tartars, Hottentots, 
and North American Indians, who frequently 
amuse themselves by shooting at a target 
while rapidly galloping past it, their skilled 
marksmen usn.illy putting three out of four 

sliots ill the 
bull’s-eye. 

The bow 
w as u n- 
d 0 ubtedly 
used in 
E 11 g 1 a 11 d 
many years 
])revious to 
the Con¬ 
quest, by 
both Anglo- 
Saxons and 
Danes, not 
only as a 
weapon of 
warfare, but 
also for 
])urposes of 
hunting. 


and it is extremely probable that the Bomans 
were responsible for its introduction into 
Britain as a military weapon. Under tli(3 
Norman Kings, marked improvement in tli(3 
practice of archery was manifest, and English 
archers were soon distinguished for excellence 
of aim, taking precedence of those ot other 
nations. The sovereigns themselves were 
not behind their subjects in skilful niarks- 
niansbip and feats with the bow. William 
the Conqueror, who owed his victory ab 
Hastings to the skill and intrepidity of French 
archers, was the possessor of a bow that 
yielded to few experts besides its owner. 
Little did he think that three and four 
centuries later the tables would be turned at 
the battles of Cregy, Poictiers and Agincourt/, 
when the long-bows of English archers Avon 
the laurels of victory on French soil. 

Bichard Cocur de Lion and his archers 
performed great exploits against Turks and 
Saracens in the Holy Land, Avhile at home 
the fame of the renoAvned, if mythical, 
Bobiu Hood and his trusty band of Sher- 
Avood Forest celebrity resounded throughout 
the country. SAvitzerland can also boast ol 
the traditional story of William Tell, Avhicli 
probably has its real origin in the Scan¬ 
dinavian fable of Toko, treating of the 
matchless marksmen. 

In succeeding reigns, the practice of archery 
became compulsory by hiAV. Edward tlie 
Third embodied a company of soldiers called 
“Archers of the Guard,” and in 1303 com¬ 
manded the general practice of archery on 
Sundays and holidays, instead of the ordinary 
rural pastimes. In 1485 Henry the Seventh 
instituted the “Yeomen of the Guard,” Avho 



Photo hy Kiny, Holkind Park Avenue, IIA 
:mr. g. e. eryer, l.c.c. 
Champion, 1875, ’92, ’95, ’90, and ’97. 


502 





archery, ancient and MODERN. 


HANNHK DKSKINKD I’.Y IIEK MAJESTY, WHEN' PIMN- 
CESS VICTOlUA, EOU THE QEEEN's ROYAL ST. 
LEONARDS CLUIL 


The full 
equipment 
of an archer 
consisted of 
how, arrows, 
drawing- 
glove, arm- 
guard, waist- 
belt, ivory 
grease-pot, 
and quiver. 
For the 
manufac¬ 
ture of bows 


Photo brjl 


\_DaviSy Lancaster. 
MR. B. r. GREGSON. 


Holder of Northern Chaminonship, 
18S3-’8G, 1880-’90, 1892-93, 1897. 


yew was 
gen er ally 
preferred to 
all other 
woods; but 
to prevent a 
too rapid 
consumption of yew, bowyers were, in the 
14th century, ordered to make four wych- 
hazel, ash, or elm bows to one of yew. At 
the present time the implements for the 
practice of archery are largely made in 
London and Edinburgh. Yew is still the 
favourite wood, but lancewood, suakewood, 
and other kinds are also used, and are said 
by some to be more durable and much 
cheaper than yew bows, which are by others 
preferred for sweetness of material and 
steadiness of “ cast.” Bows are made of 
three pieces, two pieces, and one piece, called 
respectively three-woods, two-woods, and self, 
the first-uamed make possessing additional 
pliancy and strength. Gentlemen’s bows 
measure from 5 feet 10 inches to G feet in 
length, and the power required to draw these 
ranges from 40 to GO lb. Ladies’ bows are 
lighter, 5 feet 3 inches to 5 feet G inches in 
length, and can be drawn by a power from 
24 to 32 lb. The string is usually of gut. 

Old English arrows Avere made of ash, 
weighing from 20 to 24 pennyweights, and 
being tipped with steel and feathered with 
goose feathers. The standard length of a 
gentleman’s arrow is 28 inches, a lady’s 
being 25 inches long. Bed pine is the usual 
inaterial from which arrows are now made, 
and the best are footed Avith a piece of hard 
wood upon the point of Avliich the iron pile 
is fixed. At the other end is the nock ” or 
notch for the reception of the bowstring 
Avhen shooting is to take place. An arrow 
has three feathers affixed edgeAvise at the 
“ nock ” end. These are much shorter than 
they Avere formerly, the guide-feather being 
differently coloured from the rest. They 


Avere then all archers, and archery AA’as also 
prominent among the fashionable amuse¬ 
ments of the nation. Several iVets for the 
encouragement of archery Avere passed in the 
reigns of EdAvard the Fourth and Henry the 
Eighth, one of Avhich ordered that butts 
should be erected and kept in repair in all 
toAvnships, and that the inhabitants should 
practise shooting there on holidays. 

There seems no means of ascertaining the 
precise period Avhen the use of the boAV in 
this country as a Aveapon of AAm* entirely 
ceased. It Avas regarded so favourably by 
the Army, hoAvever, that it remained in use 
long after the adoption of firearms. We 
learn, on the authority of Xeade, a celebrated 
archer of the time of Charles the First, that 
“the ordinary range of a boAV Avas from 16 
to 20 score yards, and that so rapid Avas the 
shooting of the archers, or so sIoav the firing 
of the musketeers, that an archer could 
shoot six arroAvs in the time occupied in 
chai’ging and discharging one musket.” 







504 


THE WINDSOR MAGA/HNE. 



Photo hy Savory,} [Cirencester. 

IMRS. KOWLY. 

Lady Champion, 1893-’94-’97. 


are now usually taken from a turkey’s wing, 
but were in earlier times plucked from a 
goose. 

The drawing-glove which protects the 
fingers of the riglit hand is often a species 
of doeskin glove, with the first three fingers 
tipped with smooth calf or pigskin, and 
having a strap to buckle round the Avrist. 
Many archers, however, prefer screw tips 
fitting each finger separately, Avith a strap in 
front, Avhile others use the ordinary draAV- 
glove, AAutli cylindrical points and straps up 
the back of the hand. Tlie arm-guard is 
made of stout leather to shield the left arm 
from the stroke of the string after the 
discharge of an arroAV. The Avaist-belt serves 
to carry one’s arrows AAdien shooting, and the 
ivory ginase-pot contains the particular com¬ 
pound fancied by the archer to grease the 
fingers of the draAving-glove. Tlie cpiiver 
carries reserve arrows and preserves them 
from damp. Targets consist of straw 
basses AAuth painted canvas covers. The 
“ National ” targets are 4 feet in diameter, 
having on their faces five circles or divisions, 
the centre one being gold, representing a 


score of 1) ; a red scores 7, a blue 5, a black 
3, and the Avhite or outer circle 1. The 
targets are supported on stands constructed 
of three ribs of iron, jointed at the top, and 
rest on spikes projecting from the tAvo side 
ribs, Avhile the centre rib is throAvn behind 
as a spur to support the triangle. Honours 
are aAvarded by a majority of ])oints, the 
reckoning A^arying according to the terms 
on Avhich a medal or prize is offered for 
competition. 

The uninitiated are probably unaAvare of 
the fact that the science of archery is pro¬ 
vided Avith its OAvn peculiar terms for techni¬ 
calities of the sport. For instance, an arroAv 
is said to be “gone ” Avhen it may, from its 
“flight ” or path in AA’hich it flies, be judged 
to fall Avide of or far from the mark. An 
aiTOAV is said to be draAvn “ home ” A\dien it 
is draAvn to the full extent. The “ limbs ” 
of the boAV are the parts above and below 
the handle. Persons passing between the 
shooter and the mark are cautioned to stand 
still by the cry “ Fast.” In archery, three 
aiTOAvs are termed a pair, on account of 
the liability of one to break. The term 
“ roving ” implies shooting at casual marks 
of uncertain distance, Avhile “ clout shooting ” 
is practised at a small Avhite target, placed 
near the ground. To “ sink a boAV ” is to 
reduce its force or stiffness ; and “ nocks ” 
are notches in the horns of bows and arroAvs, 
the maker of the latter being termed a 
“ fletcher,” and of the former a “ boAvyer.” 
A boAv is said to “ folloAv the string ” Avhen 
by use it has lost its original straightness 
and has obtained a curve or inclination 
foi’Avard. The “five points of archery” 
are described by Ascham in his celebrated 
Avork as “standing, nocking, draAving, 
holding, and loosing.” It is extremely diffi¬ 
cult to explain verbally the correct attitude 
of standing, Avhich should be perfectly grace¬ 
ful. Nocking designates the operation of 
placing the arroAv in its proper position on 
the string. DraAving is the next point to be 
noted, the arroAv being draAvn to the level of 
the chin and beloAv the ear. When fully 
draAvn it is held for a moment or tAvo to 
steady the aim, after AAdiich it is loosed or 
discharged by alloAving the string to pass 
smoothly oA-er the finger points Avithout 
jerking. 

The conditions of shooting are noAv 
classified as the York round, consisting 
of 72 arroAvs at 100 yards, 48 at 80 
yards, and 24 at GO yards, and the 
National round, consisting of 48 airoAvs at 
GO yards, and 24 at 50 yards. Ladies shoot 



AlidHERY, ANCIEX'I' AND MODFAlX. 



CHELTENHAM AliCHEUS: “ rilEPARING TO SHOOT.” 


tlic latter ronnd, and (gentlemen 
the former, unless otlier conditions 
are specified. Sometimes a double 
York round is shot. Club rounds 
are regulated according to the 
members’ capabilities, a strong 
clul) shooting the York and 
National while those of moderate 
power adopt a less severe test. 

While it is generally admitted 
that of late years archery has had 
formidable rivals in lawn tennis, 
cycling, and golf, statistics show 
that during the last fourteen years 
more than fifteen clubs have been 
started or revived. Of the sixty- 
five clubs and societies enume¬ 
rated in tlie ArcJiors' Reijister^ 
three compel merited notice on 
account of their historical associations—these 
are the Koyal Company of Archers, the Koyal 
Toxophilite Society, and the W^oodmen of 
Arden. The Eoyal Company of Archers is 
of very ancient origin, having been re¬ 
modelled in the year 1070, though existing 
long before that date. Down to the year 
1822 it was purely an Archery Company, 
though comprising tlie elite of Scottish society 
then as now. At that date the E. C. A. 
were granted the privilege of being the 
Sovereign’s Body-Guard for Scotland, and 
since then the Eoyal Company’s position as 
an archery society has been overshadowed 
l)y its high position as Body-Guard for Scot¬ 
land. Shooting is, however, still regularly 
maintained by the members Avho reside in or 
near Edinburgh, who number about one- 
eighth only of the total number. The 
butts are 112 feet long, and are covered 
in and heated with hot-water pipes, so that 


shooting may take place comfortably in any 
weather. The round consists of twenty-one 
ends of two arrows each, and the Butt medal 
is awarded for the highest aggregate score of 
the three meetings. An interesting relic of 
olden times—the “Goose Brize”—is shot for 
at the butts, and goes to the archer who first 
breaks a glass globe one inch in diameter. 
This is supposed to represent a goose’s head, 
the bird having originally been buried in the 
earth at the butts, with the exception of its 
head, which was shot at until it was struck, 
and the bird killed. The Company’s list of 
prizes is long and varied, including the 
Musselburgli aiTOW, silver bowl, Dalhousie 
sword, Selkirk arrow, and the Queen’s Prize 
of £20. Once in three years a match is shot 
against the A\ oodmen of Arden for a hand¬ 
some silver cup provided jointly l)y the two 
Societies. 

The Eoyal Toxophilite Society was founded 
in 1781 by Sir Ashton Lever, and 
represents the ancient society 
called Finsbury Archers, and the 
Archers’ Company of the Honour¬ 
able Artillery Company. It 
possesses a large silver shield, pre¬ 
sented by Catherine of Braganza, 
Consort of Charles II., several 
prize arrows of the same and 
earlier periods, and many valuable 
challenge prizes, which are shot 
for oil the four target days. 
Summer and autumn handicap 
meetings are held, and there is 
also a “ ladies’ day ” in July, when 
about one hundred ladies com¬ 
pete (by invitation) for prizes 
given by members of the Society. 
The President of the Society is 



CHELTENHAM ARCHERS: “'TAKING AIM.” 






THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


oOG 


the Duke of PoTtkind, and the Hon. Secre¬ 
tary Col. Walrond, present editor of the 
Archers' Register and a Avelhknowii con¬ 
tributor to literature on archery. The 
Society became permanently settled in its 
present home in Regent’s Park in 1832, 
built the Archers’ Hall, and laid out the 
grounds at a cost of more than £4,000. For 
many years the Society enjoyed the special 


patronage of King George TV., Avho was 
fond of archery, and, when Prince of Wales, 
shot in its gardens at Leicester House. 
Snbsecpient Royal patrons were AYilliam lY. 
and the late Prince Consort, the present 
patron being H.R.H. Prince of Wales. 

The Society of the AVoodmen of Arden is 
the oldest archery club in England, Avith 
the exception of the Royal Toxopholite 
Society. It still adheres to many of the quaint 


customs in A^ogue when it was founded, and 
alone of all the English societies shoots 
longer distances tlian one hundred and 
tAventy yards. The annual Avardmote, or 
grand target, is held in the beautiful forest 
grouuds, AAdien the Avinuer of the first gold 
gains the Master Forester’s medal, the second 
gold secures the Senior Yerderer’s medal, 
while the first scarlet confers the title of 
lieutenant of the target. The 
silver bugle of Arden is also 
eagerly competed for by the AYood- 
meu. 

eJohn 0’Gaunt’s BoAvmen con¬ 
stitute a society supposed to have 
been formed at a very early period, 
revived in 1788, and again in 
1820. It has its OAvn peculiar 
shooting arrangements and rules, 
Avhich haA'e been handed doAvn by 
tradition. The number of mem¬ 
bers is limited to forty-two, and 
the meetings are held in Spring- 
field fkxrk, Lancaster, by per¬ 
mission of the trustees of Ripley 
Hospital. Yaluable prizes are 
competed for at the annual prize 
meeting, and the York Round is 
shot by all first class members. 

Of the more modern clubs, that 
knoAvn as the Cheltenham Archers 
occupies a prominent position, on 
account of the excellence of its 
shooting. Established in 18G0 by 
Mr. Horace Ford, the well-known 
archer, then resident in Chelten¬ 
ham, it dropped into abeyance 
after he left the toAvn, but Avas 
reconstructed in 1871, mainly 
through the exertions of Mr. Piers 
F. Legh, Avho took a great interest 
in the pastime, and acted as 
Hon. Secretary till 1881, Avhen 
Miss Carnegy Avas elected to the 
post. The club is managed by a 
President, Committee of eiglit 
members, an Hon. Secretary, and 
an Hon. Treasurer. The York 
and National rounds are shot. 
Meetings are held on the club grounds in 
the Montpellier Gardens, one of the most 
picturesque ranges in the country. Eiglit boAV 
meetings, Avitli an occasional extra one, are 
held during the season at intervals of aliout 
four Aveeks. Tavo of these are prize days. 
The ladies are divided into four classes, 
a score of three hundred and thirty admit¬ 
ting into the first class, of tAVO Imndred and 
eighty into the second, and of tAVO hundred 



(MIAM.KXGE PRIZES PRESENTED RY THE QUEEN, WHEN PRINCESS 
VICTORIA, AND HER MOTHER, THE DUCHESS OF KENT; AND OTHER 
VALUABLE BADGES IN THE POSSESSION OF THE QUEEN’s ROYAL 
ST. LEONARDS ARCHERS. 




507 


AIKniEllY, ANCIENT AND MODERN, 




then in 1880-92. 

in 1890 

, and 

again 

in 1 8 9 9. 

Mrs. 

Piers 

Legh 

Avas 

championess 

from 

1882-1885. 

]Hrs. 

BoAvly 

Avon 

it in 

1898, 

1894, 

and 

1897, 

and 

Miss 


Bagiiall Oakley in 
189G. Major C. H. 
Fisher, President of 
the clnh, is an ex- 
champion, liaving 
won the ])ado:e in 


AllClIKRY GAIIDKNS AND PAVILION, ST. LKONARDS. 


1871-] 

874, 

and 

aijaiii in 

1887 

. J\lr. 

Eyre Hussey 

Avho 

is on 

the 

Com- 

mittee. 

Avas 

cham- 

pion in 

1894, and 

again 

in 

1899, 

Avhile 

the 

Glon- 


into the third, all below this being placed 
in the fonrth class. A prize for score and 
for best gold is given in eacli class. The 
gentlemen are not divided into classes. 
There are two challenge medals for ladies 
and two for gentlemen Avho make the 
highest scores and hits for the season, com¬ 
piled from four bow meetings. Mr. Agg 
Gardener’s challenge brooch for most golds 
during the season is awarded 
at tlie last meeting to the 
successful markswoman. The 
archery ground is o])en for 
practice every day, and target 
meetings are held eve^y 
Thursday from April to the 
end of October, weather per¬ 
mitting. There is no club 
house, but the band pavilion 
is always at the service of 
the archers for afternoon tea, 
and there is a room at the 
lodge for bow cases, etc. 

The club is at present in a 
most flourishing condition, 
and numbers among its 
members some of the flnest 
shots in England, Mrs. Powly, 
the championess, being a 
member. There are no less 
than four ex-championesses 
in the club — Mrs. Lister, 

Mrs. Legh, Miss Legh, and 
Miss Bagnall Oakley. The 
championess badge Avas flrst 
Avon by Aliss Legh in 1881, 


cester Ladies’ Team have held the brooch 
since 1888. 

The “ Queen’s ” Royal St. Leonards 
Archers boast of interesting records and 
prizes, and are the proud possessors of a silk 
banner designed by Her Majesty the Queen 
AY hen she Avas Princess Victoria, at the time 
AAdien both the Princess and H.R.H the 
Duchess of Kent became patrons of the 


LKADING MKMP.KRS OF THE ST. I.KONARDS CLUB. 



the WINDSOU MAHAZINE. 


Society. ^ Upon her accession to the throne, 
Her Majesty was pleased to remain a patron 
of the Club, and to signify her command 
that tlie Society should henceforward bear 
the title of ‘‘ The Queen’s Eoyal St. 
Leonards Archers,” its former name having 
been The Society of St. Leonards 
Archers ” and its date of establisliment 1888. 
ddie Duchess of Kent and the Princess 
V ictoria also instituted the Royal Victoria 
Challenge prizes of a gold iidaid arrow 
shawl-pin, for ladies, and a small gold bugle 
with shield and chain, for gentlemen, to be 
shot for annually and awarded to the 
members making the highest scores. In 
1880 two additional jwizes Avere presented 
by the Royal patrons. These consisted of a 
jewelled tortoiseshell comb and earrings for 
ladies, and a large silver Avinding horn for 


gentlemen. In 1888 Her Majesty sub¬ 
scribed £21 to provide a grand prize for 
ladies. This gift Avas continued annually 
for eleven years, and usually served for the 
purchase of a gold bracelet. 

It is impossible to give particulars of, or 
even to mention, the numerous other clubs 
distributed throughout the United Kingdom 
Avhose members are deAmted to the practice 
of archery. In Australia enthusiasm for the 
pastime is manifested by the Rippon Lea 
x4.rchery Club of Melbourne. This club is 
under the active presidency of Sir F. 
Sargood, Avho takes a keen interest in its 
welfare. The members do not yet shoot the 
York and National rounds, but are content 
with the shorter ranges Avhich preAiiil in the 
United States of America, ladies and gentle¬ 


men shooting at either 80, 40, or 50 yards. 
In the latter country many archery clubs 
exist, and the American National Archery 
Association holds an annual meeting at 
Avhich A^aluable medals are shot for. 

The interest of the archery Avorld centres 
in the leading annual meetings and tourna¬ 
ments at Avhich the championships and valu¬ 
able prizes are shot for by competitors from 
all parts of the country. First there is the 
Grand National Meeting held at Malvern, 
Brighton, and other centres. This might be 
termed the blue riband of the ancient spoi t, 
as the principal item of the programme is 
the shooting Avhich is to decide Avho is to be 
the proud holder of the title of champion 
or championess of the year. The Grand 

Northern Meeting usually takes place at 

Southport. Tlien there is the Grand Western 
Meeting, frequently held 
at Bath. A very pleasant 
and popular archery 
meeting is that of the 
Leamington and Mid¬ 
land Counties, held in 
the Jephson Gardens 
at Leamington. The 
Crystal Palace Meeting 
is an annual institution 
Avell attended by celebri¬ 
ties in the archery 
Avorld. 

An interesting com¬ 
petition takes place an¬ 
nually in the county of 
York, for the ‘‘ Antient 
Scorton Arrow ” (revived 
in 1808), and is open to 
every archer in the 
United Kingdom. The shooting is at 100 
yards, tAvo arrows at an end, and the number 
of arroAvs A-aries according to the state of the 
Aveather, the number of competitors, and the 
number of targets. The silver arroAv is 
aAvardod for the first hit in the gold, and the 
AA’inner becomes “ captain ” for the ensuing 
year. 

Good eyesight, early training, unlimited 
perseverance, and constant practice, are the 
factoi’s requisite for the production of a suc¬ 
cessful archer, and no ]3ersonal trait is perhaps 
so persistently manifested in the archery 
field as that of good fellowship and esprit de 
corps, set forth in the couplet on the title- 
page of the Archers'' Register as folloAvs— 

“ stout arm, strong bow, and steady eye. 

Union, true heart, and eourtesie.” 



LAvSr \EAKS CiliANI) NATIOXAL AT lUlKillTOX: MKS. IIIGSOX PUKSEXITXG 
TIIK CIIAMPIOX CLT* TO MK. KYKK AV. IlL’SSKY. 









©pportunitP inahes the n^biet 

TUI? ricTiJPvK liY Kkn^;st Yicivi<;uSf 












THE TEI.El’HONE WITH SMALL HECEIVEU. 


S OME very remarkal)le experiments, 
which seem destined to signalise the 
beginning of a new era in telephony, 
Avere recently conducted in Paris. About a 
hundred guests, assembled in the garden of 
the official residence of the Under-Secretary 
of State for Posts and Telegraphs, were 
enabled to hear songs and speeches trans¬ 
mitted by telephone from a room one 
hundred and fifty yards away, the voices 
being reproduced Avithont any perceptible 
loss of volume. This remarkable result Avas 
obtained Avith a telephone invented by 
M. Germain, an official of the Department. 
This iiiA'ention is considered likely to effect 
such a revolution in telephone communica¬ 
tion that the Frencli authorities have ordered 
an exhaustive trial of the neAV instrument, 
Avith a vieAV to its general adoption. 

The loud-speaking telephone, as eA^eryone 
knows, is no noA^lty. Edison, many years 
ago, invented one Avhich. gave good results 
under favourable conditions, but Avas im¬ 
practicable for general use. In this ap¬ 
paratus a chalk cylinder, in contact with the 
microphone, had to be kept in constant 
motion, either by clockwork or by turning a 
crank. Large numbers of these instruments 
were imported into England, but it Avas 
found that the damp climate affected the 
chalk cylinders and rendered them useless. 
Other loud -speaking "’telephones patented 
from time to time proved unsatisfactory by 
reason of their cost or uncertainty of Avorking. 
The Germain telephone, on the other hand, 
is simple, and conser|uently cheap. It differs 
from its jn’tJclecessors in several important 
particulars. In the ordinary telephone the 
receiver is highly sensitive to sound, Avhile 
the microphone, or transmitter, is compara¬ 
tively insensitive, and the electric current 
employed is very feeble. In the Germain 


THE TELEPHONE 

OF THE FUTURE. 

By G. a. Raper. 

apparatus these conditions are reversed, the 
microplione being highly sensiiive, the re¬ 
ceiver insensiti\'e, and the current mnclr 
more intense, although the same battery is 
employed in both cases. It is this utilisation 
of stronger currents Avhich forms the great 
feature of the'neAV teleplione. Hitherto it 
has been found impossible to employ such 
currents, owing to their destructiA^e effect on 
the carlion diaphragms. This, in fact, has 
always been the great obstacle in the path 
of long-distance telephony. M. Germain 
overcame the difficulty in a A'Cry ingenious 
AATxy. lie observed that Avith the existing 
microphone only about fifteen per cent, of 
the current Avas utilised on the Avires, the 
remaining eighty-five per cent, being taken 
up in overcoming the inertia of the carbon 
or Avooden diaphragm of the microphone. 
M. Germain accordingly set himself to dis¬ 
cover a microphone of much greater sensi¬ 
tiveness Avhich should offer the least possible 
resistance to the sound waves. After several 
years of experimenting, he obtained Avhat he 
recpiired by a combination of silica with 
other bodies, the result being a substance 
outwardly resembling glass, but possessing a 
certain amount of elasticity. This coin- 
pound, it was found, Avas far more actiA^e 

AV hen 
heated than 
Avhen at a 
11 0 r m a 1 
temp era- 
t u r e . It 
then be- 
c a m e a 
qu e s t i 011 
how the 
re q u i r e d 
heat Avas to 
be supplied, 
and the 
manner in 
AAffiich the 
problem 
Avas solved 

M. GERMAIN, THE INVENTOR. IS Olie Of 

the most 

iioteAvorthy features of the invention. In 
its perfected form the neAV microphone con¬ 
sists of two sheets of the silicate above 





THE TELEPHONE OF THE FUTURE. 


oil 



mentioiiecl, haviiip; between them a small 
quantity of metalloid powder. The passage 
of the sound-waves, in incessantly varying 
degrees of force, through the sensitive micro¬ 
phone, throws the particles of powder into a 
state of violent activity, the resultant heat 
maintaining the diaphragm at the necessary 
temperature while the instrument remains in 
use. This employment of comparatively 
high tension is in one respect a disadvantage, 
011 ^account of the induction which would be 
set np in neighbouring wires. Consequently 
the high and low tension systems could not 
be used together over the same set of circuits. 

The new system, however, possesses such 
manifest advantages for long-distance com¬ 
munications that its general adoption can only 
be a matter of time. The day is not far 
distant when the Manchester manufacturer 


the voice was clearly audible in every pirt 
of a large room. With a tubular receiver 
eight feet long, passing through the wall of 
the house, the voice was distinctly audible 
fifteen yards from the mouth of the receiver 
ill the open air. After so severe a test 
as this, there is nothing incredible in 
M. Germain’s claim to be able to transmit 
sound of any kind, and reproduce it two 
hundred and 
fifty miles 
away before an 
audience of 
two thousand 
people assem¬ 
bled in any 
hall of first 
class acoustic 
properties. 


MONSIEUR GERMAIN AND IlIS TELEPHONE. 


will be able to converse with his agent in 
llerlin as easily as the Capel Court operator 
now gives his orders to his broker on the 
Paris Pourse. Theoretically, the use of 
powerful currents should make it possible to 
establish telephone communication between 
Europe and America, but the difficulty and 
expense attendant on laying a suitable cable 
stand in the way. M. Germain, hoAvever, by 
no means despairs of overcoming the olistacle. 
His microphone has already given birth to a 
“ micro-transmitter ” which acts as a loud¬ 
speaking telephone over 2,500 miles. 

Early in 1800 tlie writer was present at 
some experiments with the Germain tele¬ 
phone on an artificial circuit having the 
same resistance (1,G00 ohms) as tlie tele- 
])hone line between London and Paris. 
With the small desk-receiver shown in Fig. 1 


One of the most striking applications of 
the Germain telephone is in connection with 
the phonograph and the cinematograph or 
biograph. As everyone knows, the phono¬ 
graph cannot register sounds not produced 
ill close proximity to the receiver, and 
specially directed into it. If we desire to 
record the actual stage delivery of a famous 
actor, for instance, the phonograph gives us 
no help. The lond-spcaking telephone here 
steps in and supplies the missing link. A 
large metal frame containing a considerable 
number of microphones—thirty-six are re¬ 
quired for the Paris Opera—is suspended 
near the stage. In an adjoining room is the 
receiver, placed immediately above the phono¬ 
graph, to which the telephone conveys every 
sound from the auditorium. By a combi¬ 
nation of the three instruments it is thus 




612 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



TIIK HECEIVF.R WITH ATTACHMENT FOR ESE IN LARGE HALLS. 


practicable to record and reproduce a scene, 
with the actors’ every word. Sir Henry 
Irving and other pirliiic favourites will live 
and move and have tlieir being long after 
tliej tbernselves have gone the way of all 
flesh. Before long a biograph theatre, with 
the best actors and vocalists of the day at 
its coininarrd, will fornr an indispensable part 
of every well-regulated ocean liner. 

In combination with the phonograph, the 
loud-speaking telephone is destined to be of 
great service irr recording the debates of 
public assemblies. These two instruments 
will tuiur out a verbatim report, the accuracy 
of which cannot be disputed ; and if we go a 
step further and cause the phonograph to 
dictate to an expert operator on a type¬ 
setting machine, we shall produce a verbatim 
report witliout Avriting a line ! Obviously, 
however, this feat Avonld be of the nature of 
a tour de force. The gentlemen of the Press 
in the gallery of the House of Commons have 
nothing to fear. They can ‘‘condense,” 
which tlie telephone and phonograph cannot 
do. It is, nevertheless, by no means improb¬ 
able that the two instruments may some day 
provide Hansard Avith a model stenographer 
who never tires and 
never makes a mis¬ 
take. Automatic 
Parliamentary re¬ 
porting ! Shade of 
l)r. Johnson ! 

Telephone com¬ 
munication betAvecn 
a moving train and 
a station is another 
interesting applica¬ 
tion of M. Germain’s 
iiiA^ention. In the 
guard’s van is a 
telephone connected 
Avith one hundred 
and iifty yards of 
copper wire arranged 
in a spiral on the 
side of the van. 

When the guard 
desires to report any 
occurrence, such as 
an accident to the 


train, a case of 
sudden illness, or 
a disturbance 
among the pas¬ 
sengers, he can 
call up the nearest 
station either up 
or down the line 
by using either the positive or negative pole 
of his battery. The current excited in the 
Yiin acts by induction on an iron Avire fixed 
to the telegraph posts at a distance of about 
eighteen inches above the ground, and deflects 
an indicator in the office of the station Avith 
Avliich it is desired to communicate. The 
station operator then unhooks his receiA^er 
and coiiA^erses Avith the guard exactly as on an 
ordinary telephone. In the same Avay a 
station-master can open communication Avith 
a train fitted Avith the necessary apparatus. 

The loud-speaking telephone is by no 
means the only fruit of M. Germain’s inven- 
tiv'eness. He may, in fact, be called Avithout 
exaggeration a French Edison. A process 
for deoxidising the gutta-percha of old sub¬ 
marine cables and rendering it fit for use 
again ; a pi’ocess for depositing aluminium 
on other metals by electrical fusion ; an 
electric accumulator containing, within the 
compass of tAvo volumes of the Jfncf/rlojhvdia 
Jjritamiica, sufficient poAver to propel a 
motocycle; an improved telephone battery 
adopted by the French Post Office in pre¬ 
ference to the Leclanche—these are M. (Jer- 
main’s principal achievements. 



OPEN AIR RECEIV'EK. 




























RENOWNED DUELS OF MODERN TIMES. 


By a. de Buroh. 


At Coventr}' .... 

'riiere sluill your swords and lances arbitrate 
The swelling difference of your settled hate.— 

S/iaJcespeai'c- s King Richard If. Scene /. 

N ot the least remarkable fact to be 
observed at the end of the present 
century is the frequency of duels in 
Continental countries. These are mostly 
political duels, as we may aptly call tliem, 
although there are also some to record which 
have been the outcome 
of family quarrels oi’ 
pri vate misunderstand¬ 
ings. But it is a 
healthy trait of our 
own country that this 
last survival of 
feudalism is obsolete 
with us. 

It may not be gener- 
rally known that for¬ 
merly duelling Avas 
legally permitted even 
here, although it Avas 
never a general prac¬ 
tice. Up to the reign 
of Henry If., for in¬ 
stance, duels were the 
only mode for deter¬ 
mining a suit for the 
recovery of land. 

As late as 1817, 

Lord Ellenborougli, in 
the case of Thornton 
(who was accused of 
murdering Mary Ash¬ 
ford) i\ Ashford, pro¬ 
nounced that “ the 
general Vdw of the land 
is that there shall be 
trial by battle in cases 
of appeal, unless the 
party brings himself 
Avithin some of the 
exceptions.” This law 
was abolished only in 
the following year, 

1818. 

Throngliout the 
reign of the Georges 
duels were very fre¬ 
quent in our country, 
and ill the last century 


we had to record the duels of such men as 
the Boyal Duke of York, the Duke of 
Richmond, Castlereagli, Fox, Pitt, Camiing, 
Wilkes, Gratton, Sir Francis Burdett, Daniel 
O’Connell, avIio killed D’Esterre afc Bishops- 
court by a pistol shot, and many others. 

There was always the danger, however, of 
a prosecution hanging over tlie heads of 
tliose who engaged in combats (such as were 
not legalised in the Statute Book), and in 1808 
Major Campbell Avas 
actually sentenced to 
death and executed for 
killing Captain Boyd 
in a duel. 

The most renowned 
duel of the Yictorian 
was fought in 
1848, when Lieutenant 
Munro killed his 
brother-in-law. Colonel 
Fawcett. T his coun - 
try has to thank the 
late Prince Consort for 
his interference with 
the practice, as he pre¬ 
vailed upon the Duke 
of Wellington (who 
had been lighting him¬ 
self) to take the matter 
in hand, and in 1844 
a military law Avas 
passed against duel¬ 
ling. Since then noth¬ 
ing further Avas heard 
of this most curious 
development of medi¬ 
aeval society. 

When, in the year 
17)47, the celebrated 
duel, the last author¬ 
ised by magistrates, 
AVMS fought betAAeen 
Francois de Yivonne 
de la Chataignerie and 
Guy de Jarnac, in 
Avhich the former Avas 
killed by an unex¬ 
pected bloAV, from 
Avhich occurrence the 
French language Avas 
enriched by the phrase 
“Coup de Jarnac,” it 
2 N 



BAKOX FEJERvXrY. 
Photo by KolJcstanar, Euda Pest. 

513 






514 


THE WINDEOil MAGAZINE, 


was thought that duelling 
had come to an end in France, 
as the King was so grie\'ed 
over the death of liis favourite 
tliat he swore a solemn oath 
he never again would permit 
a duel to be fought. 

But France of to-day does 
not seem to have profited by 
this royal decree. A list of 
duels folight within the last 
fifty years in that country 
Avould fill a good - sized 
volume, and would include 
some of the most famous 
names in literature and poli¬ 
tics, of which I will give a 
few : Emile de (lirardin, 

Arniand Carrel, Alexandre 
Dumas, Lamartine, Pldmond 
About, Ledru-Ilollin, Thiers, Paul de Cas* 
sagnac, Floipiet and Boulanger, not to forget 
Max Begis, the anti-Semitic ex-Mayoi‘ of 
Algiers. Of recent date is the duel arising 
out of divergent opinions on Madame 
Bernhardt’s Hamlet. 

AVhat we have just said about France is 
also true of other Continental countries, 
Avhere duels are still very frequent, and 
statistics from Italy alone show that between 
1879 and 1887 there Avere reported 2,739 
duels in Avhich 3,901 Avounds Avere inflicted, 
and fifty of these proved fatal. It is true 
that Auxrious reigning sovereigns liaA^e tried 
to abolish the practice of duelling l)y insti¬ 
tuting a Court of Honour, but the attempts 
have mostly proved ineffective. 

America has not formed any exception to 
this love of redress by arms, and even 

one of the 
Presidents 
of the 
United 
States as a 
young man 
Av a s en¬ 
gaged in a 
duel. This 
Avas Gene¬ 
ral AndreAV 
J ackson, 
AA'lio killed 
C h a r 1 e s 
Dickinson 
in 18()G, 
tAventy-two 
years be¬ 
fore he Avas 
elected to 


the liighest post in the Re¬ 
public. 

It is said that that form 
of duelling Avhich Avas known 
during this century as “the 
American duel ” originated 
fii’st in the United States, 
and was introduced from 
there into Europe. The dis¬ 
putants agreed that they 
Avould decide by lot Avhich 
should blow out his brains. 
This recalls to one’s mind 
the older form of the duel, 
the judicial coniliat, a way of 
trial A\diich prevailed in the 
Modimval Ages, ordained by 
law as a test of guilt and 
innocence, it being expected 
that Providence Avould inter¬ 
vene and the guilty would be punished. It 
has always been considered that a great 
many so-called suicides were simply due to 
self-execution under compulsion as decreed 
by lot. 

Since the duel between M. Floquet, Presi¬ 
dent of the (fflumber of Deputies, and 
General Boulanger, in January, 1888, Avliicli 
created such a sensation and liad such a 
surprising result, tAA'o Prime Ministers have 
had to fight duels with ])rivate Members of 
the Oiiposition in Parliament. The Floquet- 
Boulanger duel was fought Avith rapiers, and 
as it Avas Avell known that the President of 
the Chamber of Deputies Avas advanced in 
years, and had little experience in duelling, 
gruA’-e fears Avere entertained for his safety. 
HoAvever, almost by the first thrust made, 
the General Avas seriously Avounded in tlie 
neck by M. 

FI oq net, 
and had to 
be carried 
to his car¬ 
riage and 
placed 
under the 
care of a 
surgeon. 

Only a 
couple of 
years ago 
the then 
Prime 
Minister of 
the Aus¬ 
trian sec- 
ti 0 n of 
Austro- 




HERR WOLE. 

Photo by Mallei’, Reichenberg. 



COUNT BA DENI. 
Photo by Lowry, TT ten. 


RENOWNED DUELS OE MODERN TIMES, 


515 



THE COUNT OE TURIN. 
Photo hij Schaaricdchter, Berlin. 


Huiigaiy, Count Badeiii, was clialleiiged by 
Hoit Wolf, a Deputy, and, having received 
the permission of the Emperor, the two 
fought a duel with swords, in which the 
Count was wounded in the right arm. A few 
montlis later the occurrence repeated itself 
in the Hungarian part of the Dual Monarchy, 
and the Prime Minister, Baron Baiilfy, 
measured arms with a gallant Hungarian 
nobleman, now himself in the Cabinet, Baron 
Fejervciry. The latter duel ended bloodlessly, 
various pistol shots having been exclianged 
without result. It goes without saying that 
these duels created an enormous sensation. 

The Hungarian “ ministerial ” duel was 
only the forerunner of many other parlia¬ 
mentary combats, of which the one fought 
between Count Karolyi, leader of the Oppo¬ 
sition, and Herr Cojaiy, chief editor of the 
journal Nemzet, was the most prominent. 

How small a matter may provoke men to 
challenge one another, when excited, is 
shown by the last-named case. Karolyi had 


declined to satisfy Herr Dojaiy as to the 
sources whence the Opposition obtained the 
sinews of war for the last elections, and the 
joui'iialist hinted that (-ount Karolyi was 
afflicted ly a lack of intelligence. This was 
deemed sufficient reason for a challenge. 

Perhaps the most interesting duel fought 
during the last decade was that Avhich took 
place a short time ago near Paris, between 
Prince Henry of Orleans, the great African 
explorer, and the Count of Turin, a scion of 
the Koyal House of Savoy. Both gentlemen 
are Avell known, and are quite young. Prince 
lienry has travelled extensively in Abyssinia, 
and acted as correspondent for the Fifjaro and 
the New York Herald. In one of his letters 
home he spoke strongly about the question¬ 
able behaviour of tlie Italian army at the 
battle of x\douan, and accused Italian officers 
of cowardice. The corps of officers decided 



PRINCE HENRI d’oRUEANS. 
lOtoto Jyy Clement Jlaiirice, Paris. 











516 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


to vindicate their honour by challenging 
the Prince, and various officers were selected 
for the purpose, but his Royal Highness the 
Count of Turin, an officer in the Italian 
Army and a royal prince, claimed himself 
the riglit to represent the Army in this affair, 
which would obviate any possible objection 
to the duel from the side of the Orleans 
Prince, on account of his exalted position. 
The King of Italy reluctantly yielded to the 
request of his nepliew, and the duel took 
place. Prince Henry was severely wounded, 
and remained two months under the care of 
doctors. The Count of Turin has become one 
of the most popular personages in Italy. 

Duels, even when fought with deadly 
weapons, very seldom terminate fatally, and 
honour is generally satislied with the first 
blood shed. 

So often does duelling play an important 
part in Continental life, and so frequently is 


the result, as far as wounds are concerned, 
nil., that it has lost a great deal of its formei* 
solemn dignity, and many look askance at 
affairs which, to a certain extent, are due to 
bravado, pure and simple. In fact, the duel 
of the fin de siecle has fallen into discredit 
among thinking people, and it is certain soon 
to be dubbed unfashionable, which fiat will, 
as a matter of course, put an end to the 
practice altogether. 

The last sensational duel was that fought 
on the shore of the Mediterranean, between 
Prince Philip of Coburg-Gotha, the husband 
of the eldest daughter of the King of 
Belgium, and Lieutenant Keglewitch, a 
former member of the Prince’s household. 
There were but few witnesses, and the result 
was a dangerous wound in the lieutenant’s 
chest. The young officer was subsequently 
tried and sentenced to five years’ imprison¬ 
ment. 



PRINCK PHILIP OP CORURG. 
Photo by IColler, Buda Pest. 



PRO PATRIA. 

By max PEMBERTON.* 


Illustrated by A. Forestler. 


SYNOPSIS OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS. 

The story is related by Captain Alfred Hilliard, a young Englishman of considerable means and good social 
position. 'While on the Continent with his friend Fordham, Hilliard became acquainted with a Colonel Lepeletier, 
of Calais, and promptly fell in love with his daughter. But though ho had every reason to believe that Agnes 
Lepeletier cared for him, his offer was positively declined by her father, no reason being assigned. At their house 
he met a man whom he had known, when a boy, as Robert Jeffery, but who was known as Sadi Martel to the 
French household. Jeffery, alias Martel, had deteriorated with years, and was now thoroughly unscrupulous. He 
invited Hilliard to go with him and inspect some excavations, purporting to be harbour works and coal borings, 
which were being carried on by the sea-shore near Calais, and which he was superintending. Never for a moment 
suspecting any treachery, Hilliard accompanied him one afternoon to the scene of operations, which proved to be a 
tunnel in course of construction beneath the Strait of Dover. Martel then accused Hilliard of being a spy, and 
threatened imprisonment. On his calling Hilliard a liar, the Englishman struck him down senseless in the tunnel, 
and escaped himself and ultimately reached England again, only with the greatest difficulty. On reporting the 
matter to the authorities in England, it was treated practically with indifference. Hilliard was confirmed, however, 
in his idea that the French had sinister designs on England, by discovering that he was being spied upon, in his 
own domains, by one of the French engineers, and moreover Agnes Lejieletier paid a hurried visit to England, warning 
him that his life possibly was in danger, lie thereupon determined to visit Dover and see if he could make any 
further discoveries. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A PHANTOM CRAVAT. 


01^ DON in 
An list is 



usualIy 
described 
as a de- 
plorable 
place, full 

I of odours 
and heats 
■ and the 
dust 
which 
patrician 
feet have 
left be¬ 
hind them 
in their 


scamp er 
for the 
coast. I 
lay no 

such charge against the first of our cities. 
Hot she may be, but there are always cool 
corners in her clubs ; dust there is, but you 
can forget it in her parks. Those you meet 
have tile air of good fellows left behind. 
They can see the plays now wiiich boasted 
bookings forbade to them in June. It is 
good to stroll in the deserted streets and 
snap up the ‘‘ bargains ” with which astute 


* Copyright, 1900, by Max Pemberton, in the United 
States of America. 


dealers tempt John Ploughman. The very 
waiters in the restaurants have leisured 
moments. A cabman takes you five miles 
out of your way, and you chuckle when 
you correct his distances and pay him a 
legal fare. 

You may even recall your youthful days 
and go to the Zoological Gardens or the 
Tower—a fact which you forget to mention 
when you return to the shires again. There 
are worse things to do. 

The lions of the season are not more inter¬ 
esting than the animal celebrities of Regent’s 
Park. Those who lived in the Tower wrought 
for England and lost their heads. You reflect 
on the inconsistencies of the new order which 
does not permit one party to cut off the heads 
of the other party—but inflicts the torture of 
the wild debater. A weak-kneed generation, 
but one which these later days is making 
strong again. 

A feverish activity followed me from 
Cottesbrook to London. I had resolved to 
pass the night at my club, to “do the Palace,” 
and go on by the early boat express to Dover ; 
but the silence of the city, the solitude there, 
the doubt and perplexity which had sent me 
from my home, were not to be borne, and 
no sooner had I lunched than I found myself 
with a newer and better resolution. I would 
go on at once and reach my goal. A strange 
hunger for the sea and the white cliffs was 
not to be resisted. From Dover, I said, a 
man might look out to the sand-dunes of 
Calais, to Gris-Nez, and to Escalles—to the 


517 










518 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


harbour which the French were building and 
to those ramparts I alone of Englishmen had 
trod. There, at least, the hallucination 
which had come so strangely into my life 
might find its antidote in that Quixotic mission 
to which I had been called by the irresistible 
voice of Conscience. The truth of it, the 
truth of my dreams, the secret, to laugh at it, 
to proclaim it before the world if tlie need 
were, such I songlit. And whoso jndgeth 
me, let him read on. Had I been but a 
dreamei* these pages were never written. 

I say that I could not rest in London, could 
not contemplate with equa¬ 
nimity so much as a single 
night in the city wlicnce all 
but the people had fled. There 
was, they told me at the club, 
a train called the Granville 
express, leaving Charing Cross 
shortly after three o’clock; and 
in this, as the old-fashioned 
announcement went, I miglit 
hope to come to I^over safe in 
body and baggage at the ex¬ 
press speed of forty miles an 
hour. Such a prospect of enter¬ 
prise and management was not 
to be resisted. I booked my 
place, and, equipped sinqdy 
with dressing-case and golf- 
clubs, I took ]ny seat in a lirst 
class carriage and entrusted 
myself to that Providence 
which, possibly, watches over 
travellers even on the South- 
Eastern Pail way. 

There was no one in the 
carriage at Charing Cross, nor 
did other passengers trouble 
me at Cannon Street. I began 
to think that I should be left 
alone with my papers, when, at 
the very moment the train 
began to move from London 
Bridge Station, the door of the 
compartment was unlocked, and a man fell 
almost headlong into the seat before me. I 
had been reading a magazine, and for an 
instant I did not see the man’s face. But 
when he looked up I recognised him at once. 
He was the fellow my grooms had chased 
from tlie Abbey grounds not forty-eight 
hours before. 

There are some gra^'e situations in life we 
face with unwonted calm; others wliich 
unnerve us from the beginning, we know 
not why. Few, I think, will lay a charge 
of cowardice against me if I confess that 


my experiences of that day must be put in 
the latter category. Judge it as you will, 
I would not seek to deny that the sudden 
apparition of the man frightened me as I 
have rarely been frightened in all my life. 
Rightly or wrongly, I believed that he had 
come there to kill me. Agnes’s warnings, the 
desperate attempts the French had made to 
take me at Calais, the sure belief in my own 
conclusions, together justified the wildest 
notions. I thought that I was face to face with 
an assassin. I knew that for an hour or 
more the Granville express would not stop 


at any station. What wonder if the moment 
held me impotent, if I could neither think 
nor act until long minutes had passed, and 
the train had left the spires and cliimneys of 
London behind us on our horizon ? 

Tlie man had seated himself opposite to 
me, but presently he moved to the opposite 
corner, and w^e were then so placed that 
each could look the other full in the face 
if lie would. He had no luggage, not so 
much as a rug or a paper, nor did he carry 
stick or umbrella. His dress was a shabby 
frock-coat suit ; his silk hat, by no means 



“A man fell almost headlong into the seat before me. 





PRO PATRIA. 


519 


new, had been all rouglied bjrain and travel. 

I put him down as a man of noddle age, of 
forty years, perhaps ; but in type and charac¬ 
teristics he was truly French, his pointed 
beard of dull red, his shifting grey eyes, his 
well-made boots, his enormous black cravat 
betraying his nationality beyond any possi¬ 
bility of question. And now the greatest 
wonder was that I had feared him at all. 
We had left London behind us, and the air 
of Kent blew fresh and sweet through the 
open window. The spell which had held 
me had passed ; I sat up in my seat and 
laughed at myself. He was but a puny cus¬ 
tomer, after all—au ill-shaped creature with 
whom a lad might have wrestled confidently. 
Yet what of that ? I asked myself a moment 
later. If the man meant mischief he would 
be armed. A sudden shot in the darkness 
of the tunnel, a knife—there were many 
ways. Reflection moderated my content. I 
foresaw an hour the like to which I shall 
never pass again. 

We speak of Providence carelessly, pre¬ 
ferring the terms “ luck,” “ chance,” “ good 
fortune ” ; but I shall always say that 
Providence, and Providence alone, sent me 
to the particular seat I occupied upon that 
amazing journey. For it befell that I was in 
the corner of the carriage where the electric 
alarm stood ; and, looking up to this, I 
told myself that the Frenchman must be 
quick indeed to forestall me if I would pull 
it. It came to me that, whatever sus¬ 
picion of the man I entertained, he, last of 
all, must be aware of it. Cost me what it 
might, I would play an indifferent ppt, 
fencing with him as he with me, reading, 
resting, smoking, but never once turning my 
eyes from his face. So far did I carry it at 
last that I offered him a newspaper and 
told him there was news from Paris in it; 
but he nodded his head curtly, nor did he 
take the paper. It was going to be a silent 
game after all, then. 

We entered the long tunnel by Chislehurst 
at last, and climbed the bank of it labori¬ 
ously. There was no light in the carriage, 
and as we left the sunshine behind us, and 
the thunderous echoes from the walls dinned 
in my ears, I changed my seat stealthily and 
sat in the opposite corner. The long minutes 
of waiting, tlie anticipation of some act, 
I knew not what, fear of the darkness 
and of the man, played upon nerves already 
overwrought to the point of collapse. 
Nervously I struck match after match in the 
make-believe that my pipe would not light; 
but the feeble rays of flickering light showed 


me an immol)ile figure in the corner, the odd, 
shifting eyes, the huge cravat, the crouching 
figure—these and nothing more. Until we 
emerged into the daylight I do not believe 
that I took a full breath. After all, nothing 
had happened, except that one had played a 
craven part. 

There were three tunnels yet to be passed 
before we came to Seven oaks; but the Fi’ench- 
man, with what design I did not then discover, 
lit a candle-lamp at the first of them and 
affixed it to the glass. Moreover, he addressed 
me—I think for the first and last time from 
the beginning to the end of it. 

“ You do not like the darkness, monsieur ; 
moi non ])liis. We will have the candle, and 
then we shall see.” 

It was too grotesque, my Frenchman fear¬ 
ing the darkness ! I answered him with a 
torrent of words, the tribute to excitement 
and to relief. What a phantom had I con¬ 
jured up—the phantom of this mere informer 
sent from France to tell his friends what I 
was doing—that I should make him an 
assassin or a robber. Of course he had no 
ulterior designs, I said. He was a spy and 
nothing more ; he had followed me from 
Cottesbrook and would follow me to Dover. 
It remained to profit of the knowledge, to 
remember Agnes’s words that I had enemies 
in England. Out on the Downs, I could 
laugh at her warnings ; here, in the confined 
arena of a railway carriage, they were remem¬ 
bered more soberly. The man might be a 
consummate actor, after all. It would be 
folly beyond words to believe him for the 
asking. 

This latest apprehension went with me for 
the remainder of the journey. I was no 
longer coward or craven, nor did I fear the 
man ; but the very fact of his presence, 
coupled to that which I had heard yesterday, 
kept my eyes upon him and my brain awake. 
Magazine after magazine went through my 
hands unread. I had a pipe in my mouth, 
but the tobacco was unlighted. There was 
always that afterthought that he might 
declare himself suddenly, and that we two— 
a Frenchman in a big cravat, and a traveller 
in a serge suit—might be at any moment 
engaged in the luUe iwur la vle^ upon the 
floor of a railway carriage. So did the idea 
grow upon me with the miles that at last the 
very cravat he wore began to take strange 
shapes, to be magnified ridiculously, so that it 
seemed to cover all his body and to leave but 
his odd, shifty eyes exposed. The hallucina¬ 
tion was grotesque and real—the outcome of 
nervous strain, if you will. I battled with it 


520 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


resolutely, and began to have a great dread of 
sleep or even of a momentary doze. Instinct 
told me that the man waited for this ; that 
if I slept I might never wake again. And 
instinct was true enougli, as I tos to learn 
presently. 

A\^e were late at Ashford, and we stopped 
there ten minutes. I liave often wondered 
Avhy I did not change carriages at that place 
and end the suspense linaily. Perhaps it 
was tliat I deemed such a surrender to mere 
imagination an affront upon myself, upon my 
manliood and my courage. True, the man 
went to tlie refresliment-room, and I could 
readily have found an excuse for quitting 
the compartment, but I stuck to my seat 
doggedly ; aiid, as though to convince me 
of my mistaken judgment, tlie fellow appeared 
to sleep between Ashford and Canterbury, 
and Avas still asleep at Minster Jmiction. 
Now, I thiidv for the first time, I put aside all 
doubts and read in comfort. Upon my left 
hand Avere the muddy dunes of Sandwich ; 
beyond them the pier of Deal and the fresh 
seas of the Channel—those ivaters of Avhich 
an Englishman never thinks but to remember 
their masters in a dead day—Drake, Frobisher, 
and HaAAivins, and their unnumbered sons— 
Avho singed the Spanish king’s beard, as 
many a son of the Channel Avould singe a 
kingly beard to-day if England’s need should 
ask it of him. In truth, I Avould remember 
the man no more, and, assured that he Avas 
sleeping, I lit my pipe and read my paper 
and Avaited for the end. 

Deal ; and beyond Deal the tunnel to 
Dover toAvn. The Frenchman roused him¬ 
self when Ave entered the tunnel and shut his 
candle-lamp Avith a snap. We Avere in utter 
darkness again, and I, avIio had stood up to 
lift my bag from the rack, sat doAvn as sud¬ 
denly. Not for one instant did I imagine 
that here AA^as the moment for AA’liich I had 
AA-aited so long. The loud report of a pistol, 
a stinging sensation in my cheek, a flame of 
fire, the Au'sion of a devilish face, of staring 
eyes, of the phantom cravat, all there 
together as in a flash, left me for an instant 
Avithout Avord or nnderstanding. SloAA’ly, 
misshapen, and reluctantly the truth of it all 
came back. The man AA^as an assassin after 
all, then ! The A'ery knoAA’ledge sent the 
blood leaping through my A'eins and called 
me to myself. Crying out in the excite¬ 
ment of it, clenching my hands, I sprang at 
the corner AAdiere he had sat and struck at 
him, angrily, madly, with all the blood-lust 
Avhich passion can aAvake Avithin. But my 
fists beat the cushions, Avere bruised agaiust 


the door; the devil Avithin me could not 
restrain the IdoAA's. He had cheated me, I 
said, had leaped from the carriage, Avas dead 
upon the line, perhaps. A second report, a 
crash of glass, a sudden rush of air brought 
nie to my senses. The man Avas behind me 
iji my oAvn seat ; he had stepped across the 
cushions to reach me more surely. I threAV 
myself upon him again, felt Ins hot breath, 
touched the steel of liis pistol; but, and here 
AA'as the mystery, he slipped inexplicably 
from my touch, Avas not to be held. In A^ain 
I tried to grip him by the thi’oat, in A^ain to 
prison him Avith my knees. He Avas lithe as 
an acrobat, clever as a cloAvn, and crying out 
in his turn, defiantly, triumphantly, he eluded 
my touch and Avas gone from my ken. In 
the same moment wc came out to the light 
of DoA^er station, and I saAv that I Avas alone 
in the carriage, and that I held the man’s 
coat in my bleeding hands. 

He had opened the door of the compart¬ 
ment behind him, as Ave struggled together, 
and gone, HeaA^en kneAv by Aviiat trick of his. 
There Avas blood upon my cheek, but I said 
that I stood unharmed for the Avork’s sake, 
and for that Avhich my duty called upon me 
to do. 


CHAPTER XX. 

PURSUE]) AVHO PIAD BEEN PURSUER. 

There Avas a croAvd at Dover Station, I 
remember, and many people to put questions 
to me, and a buzz of voices, and an extremely 
unprofitable Avagging of tongues. It is 
alAvays difficult to tell of such moments AAith 
precision or to give any useful account of 
them. I had a plain story to narrate to the 
inspector of police and to those Avho helped 
him to Avrite it doAvn ; nevertheless I told it 
incoherently, Avith all those unnecessary 
Avords Avhich betray the speaker’s nervous¬ 
ness. A man had fired a pistol at me in the 
tunnel beyond the station ; he had ridden 
Avith me from London Bi-idge; he AA^as a 
Frenchman Avith an absurd craA'at and a 
deplorable hat. Possibly he Avas a madman 
(the police applauded lunacy), possibly he 
AA'as merely a thief (the police did not think 
so) ; but, in either case, he had scarred my 
cheek Avith a bullet, and I had flayed my 
knuckles in an attempt to knock him down. 
If he AA'ere to be caught, I imagined that no 
time AA'as to be lost; in Avhich the police 
agreed Avith me after many neAv questions, 
and much scraping of quills, and an assurance 
that the man must certainly be taken to- 



PRO PATH!A. 


521 



“ 1 saw tliat 1 was alone 
carriage.” 


morrow, if not to-iiiglit—a promise of less 
meaning to me than the nnwritten story I 
conld have told them so tragically. Ah ! 
that was monientons, truly. And that was 
the story I carried to my room at the Lord 
Warden Hotel. 

It had been a glorious day of summer, and 
the night fell soft and l)almy as some night 
of an Eastern spring-time, full of the 
suggestion of warmth and life and of lands 
remote from the winter world and the know¬ 
ledge of the snow. Dover herself, always an 
active town, was busy now with the coming 
and going of those Avho “ made the tours ” 
and were marshalled as so many sheep for 
thirteen or fifteen days in the bntcbei’s’ shops 
of Italy or Switzerland. The Lord Warden 
Hotel bubbled over with its merry human 
flocks, full of the wonders of Lucerne or 
hungry for those of Grindelwald. Out in 
the town the mere suburban son of the 


lodging-house listened to blaring 
bands, or was drawn with dancing 
feet to the mysteries of halls by 
the “ silver ” sea. All about me as 
I sat at table were the types I 
knew so well—the anxious parson 
with the wideawake hat and the 
wideawake daughters ; the solitary 
spinster given to psalms and 
“ hims ” ; the old traveller dis¬ 
daining haste and proud of his 
peaks ; mamma with an eye upon 
the major and another for her 
daughter (who flew not above 
captains) ; the distressed old lady 
who is sure that she will lose her 
brown-paper parcel presently ; the 
aristocratic family travelling aristo¬ 
cratically and without mirth ; the 
reading party from Oxford whose 
checks are not louder than its 
voices—a heterogeneous company 
bred of summer and the sea, a 
troop you may seek in vain when 
the gates of Switzerland are shut 
and the birds are calling ‘‘north¬ 
ward ” in the last mellow days of 
x\ugiist. For my part, I made one 
of it without interest or desire of 
friends. The great dining-room, 
with its murmur of voices and clash 
of plates, acted strangely upon 
nerves overwrought and curiously 
higli-pitched. How, I asked my¬ 
self, if I told any one of these 
in the people the nature of my errand, 
the purpose of my visit ? Would 
they call me madman or dreamer ? 
Would they be justitied to-morrow, or would 
to-morrow justify me ? The day alone 
conld answer. Yet the hour of the question 
was not passed before I met a friend in the 
Lord Warden Hotel and told him why I 
came to Dover. And he called me neither 
one name noi‘ the other, but listened sympa¬ 
thetically as was his wont. 

I found him in the corridor of the hotel— 
Charles Mallinson, the engineer, now a great 
figure in a great railway enterprise ; always 
a master of his art and a master of men. 
Tall, lithe, si uwing an honest English face 
upon which the suns of India had written 
prematurely of years, a man of the early 
forties, grave and thoughtful and full of 
cleverness, I knew not one (if it were not 
Harry) I could liave named before him as a 
confessor for that night. And he met me 
with a like enthusiasm. The anxious parson, 
the ancient traveller, the solitary spinster 






522 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


did not interest him. He admitted that he 
was going to bed to avoid tliem. 

“ An hotel has always one redeeming 
feature,” Avas his defence when Ave had 
shaken liands heartily—‘‘you can go to bed 
Avithont making excuses. It’s not so in a 
man’s house, Avliich they call, ironically, his 
castle. Let’s strike a climate where Ave can’t 
hear that piano. I’m sure they Avill play 
pianos in 1 lades—loud pedal down and the 


of spray from the neAV harbour Avorks. But 
that Avhich first enchained my eyes AA^as the 
distant light of Cape Gris-Nez, casting its 
panoply of flame to the starry lieaA en; 
Gris-Aez, from Avhose shadoAv I had snatched 
the secret; Gris-Nez, the beacon of the 
ramparts I had trod. So potent AA^as the 
memory Avhich the scene aAvakened, that my 
friend spoke twice before I heard liim. In 
imagination, I had already spanned the seas 



“‘Suppose tliey liave taken a house and are using the grounds!’’’ 


‘ Kaiser’s March.’ Are yon ffame for a 
stroll ? ” 

I was as Avilling as he to quit the hotel, 
and without further ado Ave put on our dust- 
coats and strolled toAvards the Castle hill. 
Bands Avere still playing on the front; the 
basin, aAvake to the tide, opened its gate 
to sliips and to the Avrangling voices of the 
seamen. From the Channel there came a 
gentle, easterly breeze, sending long, rippling 
waves upon the rolling shingle and little jets 


and Avas running upon the beach by Escalles 
again. Mallinson’s voice recalled me as from 
a stupor of sleep. 

“ They tell me there has been a shindy in 
the Granville express to-day—man shot at, or 
something of the sort. Did you hear any¬ 
thing of h ? ” 

I told him undi’amatically that I Avas the 
man. He ci*ied, “ Impossible ! ” and Avalked 
on a little AA^ay silently. I think be Avaited 
for me. 




PRO PATRIA. 


523 


Yes,” I ^veiit on, ‘‘ the man certainly 
fired a shot at me—hence the blush on my 
cheek. The police say he is a lunatic ; but 
I know that he is not. He shot at me 
because I got into the new French fort, over 
yonder, by Cape Gris-Nez. He or someone 
else will shoot again if I give him a chance. 
Not pleasant, you admit ? ” 

‘‘Are you serious, my dear Hilliard ? ” 

“ As a judge—who has made a joke. I’ll 
tell you all about it if you like. A man who 
talks the past does not think the present ; 
and the present is not particularly pleasant 
to-night. Let’s stroll on where there are 
not so many people.” 

We turned from the front u}) the hill 
toward the Castle, and while we went I began 
to speak to him, as one brotlier to another 
(for to this his kindly character compelled 
me) ; and though at first I said notliing of 
the graver story, he drew it from me at last, 
line by line, until he had the whole of it and 
there was no longer anything to tell. 

“ Gad ! ” he exclaimed at last, “ what an 
idea to get into your head ! You really mean 
and believe all this ? ” 

“ On my honour, I mean and believe every 
word of it. You know me well enough to 
admit that I am neither a rlreamcr nor a 
fool. I saw the tunnel at Escalles, went a 
mile down it, and Avas sure that I Avas only 
at the beginning of it. The rest is imagina¬ 
tion. It may lie there at our very foet; 
it may be half-\A^ay across the Channel and 
no further. I have come to Dover to try 
and find out. You could help me, if you 
would.” 

We were up on the heights then, and the 
moonlit sea rolled beloAV ns as some unstable 
carpet of golden cloth tossed restlessly l)y 
untiring hands. Gris - Nez shone out 
majestically above the looming Ioav cloud 
Avhich made our horizon, and to it the Fore¬ 
land sent an ansAver, the answer of the 
“ coast-Avise ” lights of England. There Avas 
the same thought in both our minds, I am 
sure, as Ave looked doAvn from that high 
place upon our country’s shimmering ram¬ 
parts—defiance, delight, and, Avarring Avith 
these, the great uncertainty. What AA^as below 
that sheen of the Avaters ? Was there a pit 
dug by French hands, a tube Avhicli presently 
would fire a mighty human shell against 
England’s liberty—nay, against her very 
existence as a nation ? Tlie mere contempla¬ 
tion of the problem could thrill tlie nerves 
as a story surpassing all stories that Avar had 
ever told. I Avondered no longer that I had 
left Cottesbrook. Until that question Avas 


ansAvered I kneAV that life had no other 
interest for me. 

Mallinson heard my question, but Avas 
silent upon it for many minutes. Just as it 
had fascinated Harry, the parson, so did it 
fascinate this man of brain and steel. He 
made the third victim, I said. 

“ Help you, my dear felloAv?” he exclaimed 
at last. “ Why, a man might AA’ell giA^e up 
everything else in life, if Avhat you tell him 
is not mere imagination ! ” 

“ Yon think it is that ? ” 

“ I pronounce no opinion. Undoubtedly, 
such a thing conld be built if you find the 
men and the money. We proposed to build 
a tunnel to France - Avhy should not the 
French try to build one to us ? Assume 
that they consider certain things—the possi¬ 
bility of mad politicians in this country 
sanctioning such a scheme some day ; or a 
temporary triumph which gives them a 
footing near Dover and enables them to 
complete the tunnel on this side. Their 
great bankers find some of the money, the 
Government the rest. Clever engineers might 
dodge the difficulties of levels Avhich some of 
us have foreseen on this side. They get 
their direction by the theodolite and push 
their tube across, say, to Avithin a mile of 
Dover. When a mad Parliament here says 
‘ Yes,’ they are ready to complete before our 
people begin. It’s all as plain as A B C— 
to me at least. And it’s the most fascinating 
thing I ever heard.” 

“ That I grant. I liaA^e hardly slept since 
I kneAV of it. And noAV I am here, looking 
for a Frenchman’s head to come up through 
the shingle. Nonsense, of course, but the 
kind of nonsense that gets hold of one.” 

He laughed in agreement. 

“ You need not fear that. If they came 
out at all, it Avould not be on the beach. I 
should place the head of their tunnel three 
miles, at least, from the shore-” 

The words came to me as some tremendous 
revelation of the night, I stood still and 
gripped his arm ; he must be held to that 
admission. 

“ Three miles from the shore ! Do you 
mean that, Mallinson ? Three miles from 
the shore. They may be working here after 
all, then. Great God ! Suppose they have 
taken a house and are using the grounds ! 
Suppose a hundred things. It’s enough to 
set a man’s Ijrain on fire.” 

He released his arm from my grip and 
began to descend the hill quickly. 

“ Let’s think about it to-morrow,” he 
retorted, “ I don’t share your alarm, though 



524 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


I share your interest. The tunnel may be 
there, under the sea, but by God’s pi’ovidence 
it will remain there to the end. I have 
confidence in the national destiny, and I am 
going to smoke a cigar. But I shan’t sleep 
to-night. You ha\'e my niglit’s rest on your 
conscience, if that’s any consolation.” 

I did not answer him, and we went down 
to the hotel together. Imaginatioii, awakened 
again, showed me a lonely country house and 
peopled it with an army of Frenchmen set 
upon the strangest emprise that the hatred 
of one nation for another had begotten in 
the history of wars. 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE VErii OF THE HARKXESS. 

Mallinsoj^ had left Dover when I came 
down to breakfast on the following morning, 
but I found a scrawl from him saying that a 
“breakdown” called him to Lincoln, and that 
he hoped to see me in London when I went 
north again. “ If it is any satisfaction to 
yon to know it,” he added, “ yonr idea kept 
me aAvake all night, as I promised you it 
w'ould, and I don’t donbt that it Avill be 
a long time before I get the devils of your 
imagination ont of my head. At the Avorst, 
it is an idea Avhich makes a man ask himself 
questions. I Avill ask myself many in the 
next Aveek or tAvo and put the ansAvers doAvn 
for your edification. MeaiiAvliile, go and 
look for your house, my dear felloAA'—go and 
look for it, even if you laugh at yourself 
afterwards for your pains. I Avould do the 
same in your place, and I am no sentimentalist. 
Chance has put up this sign-post for you, 
and you haA^e no right to pass it by.” 

I read his letter Avith interest, for it Avas 
something to Avin the approA^al of such a 
man ; and I knew that if he began upon the 
problem, the solution of it Avas not distant. 
Reserved, reticent, that odd life of his, 
carrying him hither and thither as some 
accumulator of human energy, to be called 
for Avherever difficulty or danger Avas, had 
achieved much for humanity, though 
humanity had yet to thank him. That he, 
of all men, should be a victim of the halluci¬ 
nation Avas the greater miracle. But his 
friendship Avas Avell prized, and I found 
myself the stronger for it Avlien T rode out of 
Dover very early in the day, and told myself 
that Avhere impulse led me, there Avou'ld I 
folloAV. 

It Avas a gloomy morning, generous of 
cloud and echoing the lingering voice of 


storm. There had been thunder at daAvn, 
and heavy, sheeted rain, Avhich SAA’ept the 
decks of the ships as with a natural hose, and 
left a film of glistening spray upon the deAAy 
grass, and bubbling burns where dry ravines 
had been. Close and breathless as the 
atmosphere became, forbidding the outlook, 
ten o’clock, nevertheless, fouiKl me upon my 
horse ; and by eleven I had come out upon 
a devious route, skirting Elm Wood and 
AYest Houghton to the AYarrens above Folke¬ 
stone, and so by the main road toAvard the 
tOAvn itself and to the Pavilion Hotel there. 
The object of my journey, I imagined, Avas a 
remote or lonely house Avherein the ih*ench 
engineers might do their Avork. Oh, I had 
it all so plainly noAV that Mallinson had 
spoken. Of course, I said, Robert Jeffery 
Avould not seek an opening for his tunnel in 
the precincts of Dover or upon tire adjoining 
shore. Just as at Escalles the workings Avere 
laid three miles from the beacli, so at Dover 
must I look three miles inland for their 
counterpart. Only a child in mechanical 
knowledge Avould have neglected so simple a 
truth and turned to the shore for his justifi¬ 
cation. I Avould laugh at myself for my 
very ignorance as I cantered over the splendid 
turf and said that I did not care if one 
month or six found me still at the task ; for 
I was up and Avorking, and a good horse 
Avent Avith me, and the sea l)reeze Ifiew upon 
my face. 

It AA^as a A^ain pursuit—you have imagined 
that—and many a fruitless day folloAved 
upon it before the terror of the end and all 
the strange events of which I noAV must 
speak. They learned to knoAV me, I think, 
those simple folk of the downlands ; and, 
knoAving me, I got much from their gossip 
and their gratitude. Great houses I saw in 
those days of searching, farms, cottages— 
but no house before Avhich I might diUAV 
rein to ask, “ AYhy does such a man live in 
such a place ? AAhat work is doing there ? ” 
EastAvard, Avestward, upon the Canterbury 
road, the Deal road, to AYindgate Hill, to 
Alkham, often enjoying a splendid gallop 
across the stubble, picnicing in solitary 
places, gossiping, questioning—so the AA^eeks 
were passed until that great day came when 
Harry Avas to leave Cottesbrook, and Mal¬ 
linson Avould be in Dover again as he had 
promised. And that day aaus the day of 
days, though I knew it not at dawn. 

I had risen early that morning, I remember, 
for I was full of the excitement of seeing 
my friends again ; recollecting hoAV much 
and how little I had to tell them, and wonder- 



PRO PAT ETA. 


525 



‘Mle took a step towards me and put his hand upon my bridle-rein.'’ 


in^, perhaps, if, after all, those weeks of 
waiting would not lind their end in langhtei’. 
Then, for the last time, perchance, I rode 
my good horse over the AVhhdcss Downs 
toward the Abbey road ; then, for the last 
time, sought a house which should harbour 
the men of (hlais. For I had ceased to 
believe in myself or my mission, and to¬ 
morrow I determined that I would ride no 
more. 

The way was to the Abbey, be it said, 
to St. Radegund’s and Coondoe Farm, and, 
beyond that, across the easy country to 


Swingfield and Wootton. I Innched in the 
cpiiet village; and being mindful that Harry’s 
train reached Dover at half-past fi\’e 1 did 
not linger, but returned at an easy pace, 
following the high road until it brought me 
out at Little London, and so coming to 
Alkliam and thence to the Abbey ; whereby 
I got a cup of tea and gave my horse a 
breather. Hitherto, I had always followed 
the high road, that which they call St. 
Radegund’s, in such an excursion as this ; 
but to-day, finding that I had still an hour 
to spare, I chose the other branch, which 




52G 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


goes round by River Bottom AVood and so 
to the main Tjoiidon road bv Ewell. It was 
a pleasant way, Avell-wooded and shady ; and 
I had not been ten miiintes upon it l)efore I 
observed a low, red-brick house peeping np 
pictnres(|nely from a belt of trees, and so 
girt about with plantations that it made an 
oasis, pleasant to see, in the vista of rolling 
downs. To claim that the house interested 
me above the common Avoiild be altogether 
to misrepresent the circumstance. If the 
truth be told, I Avas so set upon Harry’s 
coming, and the thought of meeting jMallin- 
son again, that I might as AA'ell have passed 
the house at a canter as a trot, had it not 
been for a chance Avhich changed me in an 
instant from an indifferent man, jogging 
homeward indifferently upon a tired horse, 
to one aAvake, alert, Avith every faculty 
quickened ; a man Avho kneAV in that monient 
that he had stumbled upon the truth and 
might pay for the knoAvledge with his life. 
As Heaven is my Avitness, I came face to face 
Avith Robert Jeffery at the gates of tlie house, 
and, draAving rein, I sat thei’e as one 
deprived of all powxr to speak or think or 
act. 

He Avas dressed in a knickerbocker suit of 
grey cloth, Avhich contrasted ill Avitli his 
bronzed face, and he carried a hammerless 
gun under his arm and turned to call a 
pretty spaniel Avhich ran from him toAA^ards 
the Avoods of the house. That he had all 
the mind to shoot me Avhere I sat, I have 
never doubted. His expression AA^as the 
most malignant I have seen, the expression 
of a man Avho meant mischief but Avould not 
dare it. 

At the same time, he mastered himself 
Avith an effort, and Avhen we had faced eacli 
other for an instant he took a step toAvard 
the house and Avhistled a loud, shrill Avhistle, 
calling, at the same time, to his dog again, 
and then running back to the road to speak 
to me. I heard him Avith an indifference 
ill-feigned enough. If a man had offered 
me a thousand pounds, I do not belieA^e that 
I could have ridden from the place. 

“ Soho ! my boy, you have found me out 
at last ? Been grubbing about this country 
a long time, haven’t you ? Well, I thought 
so. Hang me up, but I’m pleased to see you. 
You’re stopping to take tea Avith me, of 
course—tea they breAv doAvn Scotland way, 
and right good stuff, too. Say, you’re 
coming in for three fingers.” 

He took a step tOAA'ards me and put his 
hand upon my bridle-rein. I gripped my 
crop tightly, and touching the cob Avith my 


left spur, edged her aAvay from him despite 
his attempt to hold me. 

“ Thanks,” I said ; ‘‘ but I took tea Avith 
you once before. There’s no need of 
reminiscences, eh ? Just stand out of my 
Avay, or I’ll have, to AA-histle my dog. He 
Aveais a white choker, and can bark loudly 
sometimes.” 

He drcAV back sharply at the Avords and 
looked do AVI! upon the road, upon Avhicli no 
human thing Avas to be seen. The siiggestio 
fahl did not deceiA'e him. 

“ Oh,” he said, bringing the chaplain 
along, too, eh ? Let’s see—Avhat Avas his 
name, Ford—Ford—ah, Fordham, same as 
the jockey Avho won my first Derby. AVTll, 
I’ll be glad to have the pair of you—tAvo at 
a bag, and nice birds, I know. First of 
September, eh. Captain ? Close time over 
—you know.” 

“ And a dangerous season for those Avho 
don’t knoAv how to handle guns,” said I, 
still edging the cob from him ; but he 
attempted to hold me no longer. 

“ AYell, as you like, my boy—thirsty or 
full, I don’t care a cent. Guess Ave had 
some fun, hoaxing you over yonder. They’re 
laughing there still at the mad Anglain, who 
took a coal-shaft for a tunnel. My ! you 
Avere scared, sonny.” 

“ And you ? ” I asked, for I could not 
keep it back; “ they’ve put you together 
again, I see. Don’t forget the lesson, 
Jeffery. There are some men it does not 
pay to scare.” 

An angry flush of blood coloured his face 
at the taunt, but he passed it by Avith an 
airy gesture and stood in the middle of the 
road to Avatch me as I Avent. Why he did 
not draAV a trigger, I could not then under¬ 
stand. I know noAV, and the reason Avas as 
simple as most reasons are. He AA’as not 
sure if anyone folloAA'ed me upon the road to 
ISt. Radegund’s that day. 

“ So long, if you Avill go,” he ci’ied, when 
I began to trot the horse aAvay from the 
gates of the house. “If you’re this Avay 
to-morroAv, I’ll shoAV you another shaft, old 
chap ; I knoAv you’re fond of ’em. Give my 
love to the tlireepenny-bit in the AAdiite 
choker, and tell him to keep his pecker up. 
I’ll come and put a button in his bag some 
day.” 

The Avords AA'ere lost as I turned the 
corner of the road and the avenue hid him from 
my sight. Astonishment that I had escaped 
him so easily Avas my first thought ; but upon 
that there came the instant question, “ Why 
had he let me go ? Why had he shown 


FRO PATRIA, 


527 


himself at the gates of the house at all ? 
Why was he, of all men, in England that 
day ? ” Turning in my saddle when the 
umbrageous leaves ga\e an opening to the 
vista, I could distinguish his litlie, sinuous 
figure out there in tlie roadway, and I made 
sure that he was waving a hand to me to call 
me hack. Tlie very sense of freedom was 
unreal and strange. So subtle was the fasci¬ 
nation the man exercised upon me, that I 
began to wonder if he could compel me, after 
all, to go back to him. His whistle, echoing 
shrilly in the trees, seemed to strike a discord 
in my very marrow. I was afraid and not 
afraid ; excited in thought, yet cool iu act; 
desirous of hearing him and escaping him in 
the same breath. Wliile at one moment it 
seemed to me that the wood by the roadside 
was peopled by veiled figures, at the next I 
said that I had only to ride on and in a 
quarter of an hour I might be in Dover. 
And yet Dover appeared so far away, the 
woods so lonely, the peril so undefined and 
malevolent, that at last I could suffer the 
spell no more, and striking the cob sharply 
I sought to put her at a canter. But she 
rolled headlong from beneath me, and coming 
to the ground heavily I lost consciousness ; 
and the sky and the trees and the men who 
ran out from the wood vanished from my 
eyes in a loom of darkness. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A EEMOTE FARMHOUSE. 

I HAD gone down in darkness, as the old 
phrase goes, and from darkness I came back 
to life and consciousness, painfully, labori¬ 
ously, through a maze of dreams and the 
oddest figures of the imagination which a 
mind abroad could furnish for me. Aware 
of the light at last, I had no knowledge of 
any event that had brought me to a scene so 
strange or thus had changed the sunsliine to 
the gloom of the place wherein I lay. For 
that which my awaking eyes beheld was a low, 
vaulted room, with boarded loopholes for its 
windows, and great buttresses of the bare 
stone for its walls, and such an oddity of 
old-time furniture, that I might have been 
in the cell of a forgotten monastery rather 
than in the garret of a Kentish farmhouse. 
Not for a long while could my groping mind 
put the links of that chain together. That 
I had ridden out of Dover, tliat Harry was 
coming from Cottesbrook, that this was to be 
the last day of the search—these facts were 
reiterated in a whirl of confused thought 


which left no objective impressions but those 
of aching head and bruised limbs and the 
knowledge of fatigue such as I had never 
known. The room and the meaning of the 
room I might not realise until, as it seemed, 
long hours had been lived through. I could 
remember only that I had left Dover after 
breakfast, and that Hariy’s train was due at 
half-past five o’clock. But I knew that the 
sun was shining in the world outside, and 
the desire to be up and upon my cob pursued 
me as a fever. 

A man’s voice recalled me to the truth, 
and I started up from the bed to survey the 
room more closely, if possible to discover 
who occupied it with me. Dim as the light 
was, making evening of the day, I could yet 
discern the heavy, time-stained walls, the 
massive buttresses of stone which gave to the 
place its air of a monastic cell and seemed 
to chill its atmosphere as with the breath of 
a dead and moulding past. Shadows, too, 
were there in the glow of the filtered light— 
the shadows of quaint, liigh-backed chairs; of 
bureau and bench and box which the Middle 
Ages had used, but this age had despised. A 
turret-room it had been, I saw—a lumber- 
place built when mason was monk and 
monk was mason. And they had carried 
me there—from the road where I fell ? 

Thus, by fact and question, I^ linked my 
chain of memory ; and now, as in a flash, I 
recollected it all—the meeting wdth Jeffery, 
the stumbling cob, the figures in the w'ood, 
the sudden darkness. This was tlie house, 
then ; the clumsy cob had sent me here ; 
one of the men watched me as I lay upon 
the bed. I could follow his eyes, peering 
from the shadows as the eyes of a cat wdiich 
sees wdiere others are blind. But he did not 
utter as much as a single W'Ord after the first, 
nor had I any fear of him ; and for a long 
while we two rested thus—I upon the bed 
waiting for him, and he staring at me out 
of the darkness. To this day I do not know 
if he Avere Jeffery or another ; for when I 
began to struggle to my feet he opened the 
door very dexterously and was gone from the 
room in an instant. Then I breathed again 
and stood up. I w^as glad to be alone. 

A remote farmhouse in Kent; Frenchmen 
peopling its grounds; an engineer, who 
had served the French Government, the 
apparent master of the house; myself a 
prisoner in a garret of it, for that wdiich I 
had seen across the sea at Escalles—is it profit¬ 
able to say with what varying emotions I 
realised my own justification ? Three months 
almost had passed since a day at Calais, which 




I luul expected to see ji stnuige face, but the light of a small lamp showed me the figure of Jeffery.” 





PRO PATRIA. 


529 


had taken me to the strangest sight the sea 
ever showed to a soldier ; for three months I 
liad been the scorn of those wlio Avon my 
confidence, tlie suspected of friends, the 
dreamer avIio seeks to say, “ The dream is 
false ” ; and noAV this neAV day could ansAver 
for ever the questions I had asked myself. 
True, before Heaven and man, tlie dream Avas 
true, then ! Here, three miles from the shores 
of my OAvn country, in a place where no spy 
—no, not the shreAvdest that ever breathed 
—might have looked for it, here Avere 
those Avho Avould go aoAvn—or, it might be, 
already had gone down—to meet that road 
of steel Avhicli, minute by minute and hour 
by hour, France thrust out beneath the 
Channel-bed until it should touch the gardens 
of England and make her mistress of them. 
Ho dream, no hallucination, 1 said, but a 
truth so terrible that every other impulse of 
being—my hope of career, my hope of love, 
my hope of home—Avas lost in it. For I Avas 
a prisoner in that house of mystery Avhen I 
Avould hav^e given all my fortune to liaA'e 
cried out the Avarning to my countrymen. 

The dream Avas true, and I liad not dreamed 
in vain. Beyond it there remained a burden 
of reproacli Avhich might Avell have crushed 
a stronger man than I. To knoAv and to be 
iinpotent, to say that any cliance, the most 
trifling, would have sent me back to Hovci’, 
free and ready that night; to remember Avhat 
might have been if others liad but listened 
to me—I wonder that I Aveighed these things 
and did not lose my reason. Nevertheless, 
even at the crisis of it, some better instinct 
guided me, some surer hand of my schooling 
held me back from the folly Avhich neither 
courage nor desire could have made good. I 
said that I Avould play a man’s part—and, so 
saying, I turned from the door Avhich my 
hands Avould have struck and sat upon my 
bed again. 

The day Avas Availing then, and from the 
fields Avithout there came the music of the 
dusk—pigeons circling to roost, tlie loAving of 
kine, the crack of the harvester’s Avhip, the 
rumble of heavy wheels upon a hardened 
road. A\ithin the house the silence Avas 
broken by the gong of a clock Avhich struck 
seven ; and, anon, by the footsteps of many 
men, AAdio, as the sounds Avould tell, flocked 
together to the staircase beloAv and came up 
in numbers to some of the rooms about my 
OAvn. I heard many voices, loud, free, 
unrestrained ; and so clear Avere they that I 
kneAv they spoke the French tongue, and 
imagined them for AA^hat they AA^ere— 
Avorkers at Jeffery’s command, those chosen 


seiwants of his who had passed me in the 
tunnel at Escalles. Yet what their number 
was^or what work they did here by Chilton 
in Kent, I could but surmise as my knowledge 
helped me. They Avere there, I said, to 
thrust down an answering shaft to the one 
Avhich Escalles pushed out toAvards England. 
While the greater burden must fall to the 
French shoie, while the tunnel must be 
almost completed from that side, here in 
Kent the head of it Avould be built, the shaft 
dug out. It might eA^en be that in a Aveek or 
a month the straight high-road to our coast 
Avould be opened, never to be shut again ; 
that the day Avas near when England Avould 
be an island no more, but linked by this 
mighty passage to the Continent Avhicli so 
long had feared her enmity. For in this 
shape did tlie fear of it come to me, that as 
our OAvn Government had been blind at the 
beginning, so would it be blinded to the end. 
And I, Avho could have spoken, AA^as for ever 
silenced !. I knew that I should never leave 
that house alive ; that a miracle alone could 
snatch me from the vengeance of the man 
AA'^hose path I liad crossed. To him the lot 
had fallen ; and with him noAv my destiny, 
or it might be the destiny of millions, lay. 

I could reckon thus Avith it—ah, as man 
never reckoned yet, AAdiile the light dreAV 
back from that cell-like room, and the 
obscurity about me began to turn to the 
deeper shadow of the night. I AA'as in sore 
straits enough, for my head throbbed Avith 
the fall, and my limbs Avere stiff and cold, 
and faintness and hunger came to share the 
lot with me ; and, above all, there AA^as sure 
knowledge that these men Avould shoAV me 
no mercy nor risk their ends again that I 
might benefit thereby. Escape, indeed, or 
perhaps the desire of escape, aa^is early in 
my thoughts ; but that Avas not the hour 
of it, AA'hatever might come after. I would 
not deceive myself with any foolish bravado 
or belief in luck AAdiich once had served, 
but might well forget me now. That the 
house Avould l)e watched as a ])rison I did 
not for one moment doubt. My life could 
be nothing to these men Avho had risked 
all on the boldest emprise in the story of 
their nation. They Avould kill me Avhen 
they pleased—and who should name the 
hour of it, to-night, to-morroAA^, Avhen the 
clock next struck ? CoAA'ardice, I said, even 
to debate the thing. 

The great gong of the clock in the room 
beloAV me struck eight, and the door of the 
room opened Avith the last beat of the 
hammer. I had expected to see a strange 

2 0 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


5:^)0 

face, bub the lie’llb of a small lamp showed 
me the fiomre of Jeffery, and 1 was nob 
surprised bliab he sliould come bhere. Never 
ab any bime liad I feared bin’s man ; I did 
nob fear him now. Cnriosiby bo hear him— 
ib may ])e, cnriosiby bo see whab he would do— 
senb me bo my feeb quickly when he enbered. 
We were face bo face, ab any rabe. 

lie carried a lamp in his lefb hand, a 
cigar in his righb, and sbill wore bhe grey 
shoobing snib which 1 had remarked ab bhe 
gabe. An old oak bench sbood op])osibe my 
bed, and here, when he had seb bhe lamp 
down on a dnsby bureau, he seabed himself 
and began bo smoke qniebly. The nnlabched 
door upon his lefb hand, "blown open by bhe 
draughb, showed me an empby sbaircase lib 
by a candle in an iron sbick. Ib was evident 
bhab he feared neiblier an abbempb bo escape 
nor any danger of a quarrel on my part. 
There were obhers below, ready at his call. 

“ Well, Captain,” he cried a little boister¬ 
ously, “ and how do yon like yonr quarters? ” 

I sat upon the bed and answered him in 
the same spirit. 

“ In the matter of light and dirt they are 
just what I should have expected.” 

“ Ah, satirical, I see. A nice job, my boy, 
isn’t it—yon in the box, and we not knowing 
whab the devil to do Avith yon ? AVell, yon 
aren’t a considerate man, I must say. Fancy 
putting people to this trouble ! ” 

“ Bring me my cob,” said I, “ and yon 
shall be pnt to no trouble at all.” 

He chewed the end of his cigar for a little 
Avhile and surveyed me with a glance half- 
cynical, half-satisfied. His odd, ill-balanced 
brain troubled itself, I thought, with a 
jumble of ideas and intentions. 

“ Ah,” he said, “ I’ll take yonr Gospel oath 
on that. Captain Alfred. Wake yonr mind 
easy, my boy. We aren’t going to part with 
yon like that—no, I reckon not. Fas si hete, 
as my brothers downstairs Avonld say. You’re 
one of ’em now. You’re an honoured guest 
at Eiver Bottom Farm, and we’ve boarded 
up the windows of your bedroom so that you 
shan’t catch cold. If you want anything, 
ring the bell. I’ll send a new rope up some 
day, for I see there isn’t one. Say, boy, 
Avhab a game for the parson chap who’s 
waiting for you at Dover ! He’ll have to 
turn up Job to-night and spell out a chapter. 
It’s as good as a play to think of it.” 

He laughed ab his own idea ; but I could 
think of nothing to say to him. Presently 
he continued, less pleasantly— 

“ What did you come here at all for—after 
my machine, eh ? Don’t tell me different. 


])ecauso I should call yon a liar. Yon came 
to steal my brains—there’s been many on the 
job, l)nb you’re about the best of ’em. And 
now you’re under lock and key. Well, 
Pi'ovidencc helps poor men sometimes. AVhen 
yon go out of this house you can take the 
corkscrew with you. The cork Avill be out 
of the bottle then, and the Avine in the glass 
—good red Avine, l)y George. Does it strike 
that Avay, sonny ? ” 

I tried to answer him quite coolly, as a man 
debating an opinion. The notion that I had 
come, not to serve my country’s interests, 
but my OAvn, amazed me almost to the point 
of silence. Only such a brain as his—the 
Imiin of the engineer whose child AA'as a thing 
of steel and brass, to be loved as no human 
child might be—could have looked thus oaxw 
the snpieme fact of the situation to so pitiful 
a complaint. I believe to this hour that bhe 
question of a tunnel Avas less to him than the 
invention Avhich bored his tunnel. He 
thought that I had done all to rob him of 
his child. Impossible to argue with such 
a mind. 

“ Look here,” I cried impatiently, “ you 
know that I don’t care tAVopence about yon or 
your machine. I got out of Calais to tell my 
countrymen a plain story. Shall Ave go into 
particulars ? ” 

‘‘ If it amuses you, talk all night. I shan’t 
])elieve a Avord of ib, so that’s understood. 
What Avas it to you Avhat the French 
Avere doing at Calais ? Your people never 
asked our permission Avhen they started 
to bore on this side ; why should Ave ask 
theirs because Ave’re coming here ? Fine 
times, my boy, Avhen the shaft is through ! 
We’ll have a IjYench Lord Mayor of London 
by and by, just to shoAV ’em how to do it ! 
And I’ll be even Avitli some on this side— 
you first of all, for sneaking round after my 
brains.” 

Temper began to play Avith him, but I 
bent my own to his mood. 

“ Don’t let’s have another braAvl,” Avas my 
plea. “ Am I the man to care for threats ? 
]\Iy friends Avill be after me to-morroAV and 
Avill AAmit to knoAV something about this 
house. I think yon had better let someone 
else shoAV them round. They might not be 
civil if they found you here. And the police 
Avould ask questions.” 

He laughed ironically. 

“ The police be rotted ! What do they 
knoAV about ib ? Do you think Ave’re 
children Avith pap-bottles, or Avhat ? Let ’em 
come, and I’ll do the honours myself. Can’t 
a gentleman make a lake in his grounds if he 


PRO FATRIA, 


531 


likes ? I’m the master in this house, and I’ll 
do what I please with it. My present fancy 
is for a lake. Shift lots of ground, siree, and 
go a long way down. But I wish I knew 
what to do with you. You’re just a had 
egg, and no doubt about it.” 

I heal’d him with more anxiety than I 
cared to tell. At least he did not then con¬ 
template the surer way of shutting my lips. 

“ No,” he continued, and temper spoke 
again, “ I can’t kill you, sonny—I haven’t 
got tlie pluck, and that’s the straight truth. 
There’s plenty here that would, and, maybe, 
will by and by. But I’ll give you time to 
think of it, any way. Make your mind easy 
— Bobert Jeft'ery is an honourable man. 
We’re all honourable men, so help me 
thunder! and no kid-gloved butterfly is 
going to steal our brains. I’ll take my oath.” 

It was odd to see the way tins supposition 
of a theft kept cropping up at every turn. It 
would become a mania later on, 1 foresaw. 
Who would answer such arguments seriously ? 

“ AYell,” I said, “ oaths don’t help a man 
much nowadays. A little common sense 
goes much farther. Why don’t you think it 
all over ? If I were in your place, the first 
question I should iude myself would be one 
concerning Alfred Hilliard’s friends. Are 
you quite sure that he was alone this after¬ 
noon ? ” 

He looked at me under his shaggy brows 
and I knew that I had not frightened him. 

“ I’ll ask that and more to-morrow,” he 
said determinedly ; “ it’s about time you were 
thinking of bed, sonny. Hungry, did you 
say ? Well, we’ve got some good bread and 
cheese in the house. This old universe 
wouldn’t be such a bad place if we were all 
fed on bread and cheese and good ‘cold 
spring.’ Say you’re doing a service to 
humanity when you eat it, and don’t forget 
your grace—it’s bad manners. Good night, 
my son—if the coffee is poisoned, let me 
know to-morrow and I’ll hold an inquest. 
And, by the heaven above me, if you raise 
that voice of yours more than a whisper. I’ll 
blow your brains out! ” 

He flung open the door at the words, and, 
snatching up the lamp, permitted me to see 
the upper landing and those who waited for 
him there. They were Frenchmen, eight or 
ten of them, in as honest corduroy as ever 
ploughboy wore. I understood his new 
courage when I saw them, and why he had 
not feared to keep the door unlatched. A 
fool alone would hope for liberty by that 
road. 

“ Pleasant dreams, chum,” he cried again. 


as he went out and locked the door after 
him. “Don’t frighten yoni’self—we shall 
hear if you knock. And I’ll send the bread 
and cheese up by and by. Au revoir^ my 
boy, and mind you’re up early in the 
morning.” 

I did not reply with as much as a single 
word, but sat, in utter darkness, wliile I 
could hear his footsteps and the footsteps of 
others upon tlie stairs below. When all was 
silent again I began to grope for the bed. 
A great sense of fatigue and loneliness came 
upon me and I had the desire to sleep. 


CHAPTEB XXIII. 

A SILENT AEMY. 

The night was long, the longest of my life. 
Sleep refused to befriend me ; nor sleeping 
had I any rest. What food they had sent 
up to me at nine o’clock (for I heard the 
gi’cat gong again) lay untouched upon the 
plate. Tim steaming cup of coffee frightened 
me. I did not dare to drink it, though I 
had the thirst of fever, for the jest had made 
of it a death-draught. The light of two 
inches of candle (that much they set upon 
the tray) failed at last and left me in utter 
darkness. I dreamed of an army of French¬ 
men, an endless army coming up out of the 
pit in the gardens of the house. 

And why should not that dream be true ? 
I asked myself. Who, but those who made 
it, could say where the tunnel from Escalles 
began and where it ended ? Who in England 
knew one word about it ? If it had been 
carried one mile under the Channel, why 
not ten or twenty, or even twenty-three ? I 
had set foot in the first tube of it and had 
heard a distant sound of throbbing, as of an 
engine working many miles away. I knew 
no more than the dead how many years the 
Frenchmen had been at work at Escalles, 
nor at what speed the boring machine, of 
which Jeffery boasted, could cut away the 
chalk of the sea-bed. It might be that the 
beginning of this mighty labour was to be 
found in the record of the last decade, when 
we, ourselves, spoke of a tunnel to France 
and the French were silent. It might be 
that their task was almost accomplished and 
that they had but to break through the door 
of earth, in the very grounds of the house 
which prisoned me, to find their passage 
free, the road for their outposts ready. 
And wliat then ? what then ? Ah! the 
brain burned when I put that question. 

The dream showed me a lonely house, and 



582 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


in the gardens of the house a great shaft, 
and from the shaft a silent army emerging 
silently. Elsewhere, said my soldier’s 
instinct, a feint of landing upon English 
shores had drawn onr forces from the place. 
There had been an alarm at Pevensey, at 
Lowestoft, in the marshes of Essex. No 
English general so much as thought of 
Dover, of its harbour or its deserted down- 
lands. And while our ships were steaming 
eastward, westward, to Plymouth and the 
Nore, these mighty, unnumbered hosts came 
up out of the very earth to the gardens of 
my country and the homes which lay beyond 
them. It was as though some hand of iron 
closed my month and held me dumb while 
the desire to cry the tidings became as a 
raging fever. Again and again, in that 
terrible sleep, I counted the serried com¬ 
panies which were ever vomited from the 
earth and poured over the Downs, there to 
entrench themselves upon the heights and to 
wait the day with confidence. To-morrow 
these outposts would, in their thousands, 
hold the camp for those that followed after. 
Day and night, day and night the rolling 
trains steamed below the frothing waters of 
the Channel to cast out their human freight 
upon the grassy down, and to make sure tliis 
surprising treachery. One hundred thousand, 
two hundred tliousand, more and ever more, 
who should limit the number of the men or 
say. Here is the last of them ? In a single 
night an advance guard strong enough to 
hold the liills could pass up from the tnunel’s 
month and make good its foothold. And 
once the key was field, what force of ours 
might hope to shut the gate again ? Never 
did a man know, in the face of defeat, the 
mental agony which this picture of the dream 
could compel me to suffer. Neither sleeping 
nor waking, I watched for the lingering day 
and the first message of the light Avhich the 
boarded windows might give me. I was 
impotent, dumb, caged at an. hour of hours 
when a man would have given all that life 
had for him to have uttered but a single word 
to England and the cities. Heaven ! it was 
a terrible dream, which I must live through 
many a night yet before the end could be. 

I knew not, I say, how far their tunnel 
was carried, neither by what authority this 
work in Kent was done, nor what was the 
progress made in the gardens of the house. 
In the uncertainty lay the torture of the 
dream. Sooner or later, said the voice of 
Hope, your friends will discover yon ; to 
whom the voice of the Despairer answered. 
They will never discover yon, for these men 


will kill you. If I feared death, I can say 
it on my conscience that I feared it less for 
myself than for that silence which must 
follow upon it. The hazard that the tunnel 
might even then be an accomplished fact 
began to be a mania of the mind, thrusting 
itself between every brighter ray of argu¬ 
ment, forbidding even that factor of time 
and the chances of time which alone could 
help me now. For why should a house be 
taken upon our shores at all if the work 
from Escalles were not so near to completion 
tliat days rather tlian months were necessary 
to finish it ? Even a child’s logic would 
have read as much of the story of the house 
and of those who occupied it. Whether 
upon the invitation of private individuals or 
of the Government in France, Jeffery and 
his chosen engineers had come to Dover to 
join hands with those who pushed under the 
sea from Cape Gris-Nez. One word of alarm 
in England would shatter that ambition, even 
at this hour. I said that the word would 
never be spoken by me, and, saying it, 
beheld the dawnlight winging into my room, 
and I knew that the day had come at length 
—it might be the very last day that I should 
live to dream or to awake. 

They bi’onglit me breakfast, good coffee 
and some fish, at eight o’clock, and ravenous 
hunger drove me to the meal. If they 
would have done with me this way, well, let 
it be so, said Eesignation ; for a man can die 
but once, and when they wished my death 
they could accomplish it at their leisure. So 
I ate recklessly, seeking to draw the French¬ 
man who served me into talk, but failing 
ignominiously, for he was silent as a judge’s 
clerk, and when he would ask a question a 
grotesque gesture helped him to it. 

By and by he left me, locking the door 
behind him ; but shortly before twelve 
o’clock Jeffery himself came up to the 
room and, entering it without any ceremony, 
began to bargain Avith me for my silence. 
He was quite sober noAV, curt, taciturn, and 
very open. I answered him as briefly as he 
questioned me, for I had expected something 
of the sort. 

‘‘Noav, Captain,” he said, thiwing him¬ 
self upon the bench and crossing his legs 
impatiently, “ what’s it to be, light or dark ? 
a first-floor parlour or this dog-kennel ? 
You’ve only got to name it, yon know ? ” 

‘‘ Put plainly, yon want my parole ? ” 

“ Exactly. Give us your Avord to behave as 
a gentleman, and not to go aAvay from here 
even if you see the door open, and Ave’ll do 
the handsome thing by yon. Is it on ? ” 



1 dreamed of an army of Frenchmen, an endless army coming up out of the pit in the gardens 

of the house.” 










584 


THK WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


“ It’s very iniicli off—I wonder you waste 
time.” 

“ Oh, I’m always glad to play the good 
Christian. What says the proverb ? An eye 
for an eye, even if it’s a glass one. Yon 
can’t mend matters here, not if you’d the 
voice of the great Mnmbo Jumbo. Why 
not reckon it up ? Good food and good 
quarters until we’re through with it. We 
shan’t be long, my boy—a month at the 
most, perhaps. If the gang on the other 
side were ready. I’d be ([uicker. But that’s 
the way with the Froggies. Give ’em an inch 
and they’ll make a hell. They can’t even 
manage my old corkscrew if I turn my back 
for twenty hours. Say, you thought you’d 
got a bead on me there. Some day Fll show 
yon her ladyship when she’s bored this bit 
of a rat-hole. I’ll be a rich man then. 
Captain Alfred—a rich man, savez? And 
you’ll be—well, who knows ? There are 
gentlemen across yonder who’ll have a finger 
in your pie for what yon did at Escalles. 
I’m sorry for you, young man.” 

“ Keep your sympathy,” said I. “ You’ll 
want it by and by. Have yon asked your¬ 
self what your chance is worth ? A pin’s 
point ! Not more. I’d as soon believe in a 
machine for flying to the moon. To-day or 
to-morrow your friends the police will be 
in here. It will be my turn to do the 
laughing then. 

He passed the threat by and repeated his 
first question. 

“ Leave the police to me, young fellow. 
Wliat they learji at the River Bottom House 
they’re welcome to. It’s you that I’m 
thinking of. Are you going to suffocate up 
here, or try your luck in a AValdorf-Astoria 
downstairs ? Name it, and be quick, for I 
guess I can’t waste my breatli on you. Is it 
off or on ? ” 

“ It is off—absolutely, finally.” 

“ Then look out for yourself, Alfred 
Hilliard. We’ll make it warm for you—oh, 
you bet.” 

For a moment he stood as though 
hesitating, and then left the room abruptly, 
slamming the door after him. I saw no 
more of him tliat day nor for many days 
after. The old Frenchman, Avho brought my 
meals, came regularly to the room, but spoke 
only in gestures. Convinced now that I 
should suffer no greater harm than that 
of the close anl debilitating confinement, 
I began to think that some hand more 
discreet was controlling even Jeffery and 
those with him in the work. I had been 
trapped and should be held to the end ; but 


my life was not sought, nor would it be 
while I remained the acquiescing prisoner of 
the garret. And, yon may be sure; there 
was no scheme of escape, no plan or plot or 
hope of liberty, that my mind did not turn 
over in those lingering hours of despair. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ I REMEMBER.” 

I HAD been the close prisoner of the River 
Bottom House for seven days, when there 
came to me a surprise of the monotony, 
which was so unlooked for that I remember 
the moment of it before any incident of that 
surpassing week. It was early still in the 
morning, when old Boisdeffre (for such I 
have learned was my gaoler’s name) entered 
my room for the second time within an hour 
(a very unusual occurrence with him), and 
approaching me with more deference than 
usual, civil old man that he was, uttered an 
invitation so strange that I did not at first 
believe my ears. 

“ Monsieur,” he cried, there are those 
who wish to see you, la-bas, in the salon. 
You are to go down, if you please.” 

I stared at tlie old fellow in amazement. 

‘‘ Go down, old Boisdeffre ? Do you mean 
it ? ” 

‘Ht is an order, monsieur. Have tlie 
goodness to make haste and follow me. 
They wait for you.” 

He threw open the door and held it back 
while I passed him, to light and air and all 
tlie excitements of his surprise. liong days 
of the twilight, nights of darkness, and the 
dreams had so played upon me that I had 
neither nerve nor strength left. I went as 
a man groping for the way. AVho could be 
in the salon below ? 

It was a wide staircase, oak-panelled and 
very old. I found myself at last upon a 
broad landing ; nor did I fail to remark the 
figures of two men who sat upon a bench by 
a great shiined-glass window, and appeared 
to be talking at hazard, unconscious of my 
presence. As they guarded the staircase, so 
did othei’s watch the doors and gates below 
—the inference was elementary. Even old 
l^oisdeffre read that which was in my mind, 
and would have recalled me from it. 

The salon is here, monsieur ; please to 
enter.” 

He knocked upon the door of a room by 
his left hand, and a soft, well-modulated 
voice cried “ Entrez ! ” I should have recog¬ 
nised the speaker anywhere by that single 



535 


PRO PATRIA. 



‘ She caught my hand siuUlcnly in hers, ami bending her little head, she kissed it.” 


word, uttered so pleasingly, and I knew 
that Colonel Lepeletier was the mail. Hope 
went out with tlie knowledge, but a certain 
pleasure (for there was never a truer gentle¬ 
man) followed me to the interview. At 
least, the Colonel would seek to talk of 
justice and of honour, for both terms were 
familiar to him. 

So bright was the sunshine of that Sep¬ 
tember day that it blinded my eyes when I 
entered, and gave me confused images of 
heavy oaken furniture and garish windows 
and green trees beyond tliem and the figuie 
of a^’stooping old man sitting at a writing- 


“ Captain Hilliard,” he said, “belie\e me 
that I deplore the circumstances of this 
meeting.” 

I hesitated a moment and then shook 
hands with him. After all,^ he ^ was the 
creature of trickery and not of malice. 

“Deploring them,” I said, “you have, doubt¬ 
less, come here to change them. Colonel ? 

He retorted honestly, neither flinching nor 
excusing himself. 

“ To'the point where your interests and 
my country’s do not engage, I am here to 
serve you. Captain. Beyond that I cannot 
go. Let us begin at that point. I will not 


table. When 1 could see more clearly, T 
recognised the Colonel, in spite of his sobei 
frock coat and the glasses which hel])ed him 
to write ; but that which was the unexpected 
thing, so unexpected that a thousand guesses 
wouhl not have found it, was the presence of 
another, of Agnes herself, sitting in a low 
chair by one of the windows, with such a 
look of despair upon her pretty face that I 
forgot my own story u])on the instant and 
was all curiosity to hear her. 

“ Mademoiselle Agnes ! ” I cried at last ; 
but she stopped me with a little gesture, 
inviting me to speak first to her father. 
Colonel Lepeletier stood up at the saujc 
moment and held out his hand. 


])hij a double part; you inust uot ask it. 
But there is much else which you may ask 
Hiid T may grant. Please to sit down ; you 
are tired, I see.” 

He indicated a chair by his table, and so 
])laced me that my face was turned away 
from the window by which Agnes sat. But 
her face haunted me even though I could 
not sec it : and 1 thought of her and of the 
gardens beyond the window, and fell to 
wondering if I would ever go out with hei 
to the world again. 

“ Colonel,” I said, putting at last the 
cjuestion I should have asked at Calais tluee 
months ago, “ you doubted my honour once 
—do you doubt it here at Dover ? 












536 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


He waived the objection aside with tlie 
air of a man accustomed to command. 

“Let the past be the past,” he cried 
earnestlj. “ We were both the subjects of 
delusion—you, in believino; that I was as 
these people wlio own this liouse ; I, in 
attributing to you motives upon which, you 
did not act. Much has happened since then. 
Captain Hilliard — much that I neither 
wished nor foresaw. The work which was 
begun l)y the enterprise of a government 
lias been almost completed by tlie money and 
the daring of private individuals. Under¬ 
stand me. Wlien the Cabinet at Paris 
permitted the engineers to carry their shaft 
under the sea, they did it as a tentative 
experiment, to be pursued some day when 
nations are governed by reason and justice, 
and England fears no longer to be linked to 
France. Our Government permitted an ex¬ 
periment at Calais ; but the intrigues and 
the money of those who hope for a king in 
Fi’ance and a throne in England have made 
that experiment a realisation, and have done 
a work which, I know not, may carry my 
country to minor to a position she has never 
occupied among the nations. This house, 
the work that is done in it, is done, not by 
France, but by men of France who v'ork for 
her none the less surely because they work 
alone. It has been your misfortune and 
mine that you have come between the Avorker 
and his ambitions. But the worker has 
preA^ailed, and your own hope, Avhich I, as a 
soldier, may call a very noble hope, is finally 
defeated. Accept the situation which you 
cannot mend, and agree that you have done 
your best.” 

“ I will never accept it—Avhile I live. 
Colonel.” 

I looked at Agnes Avhen I answered him 
and saw that she had turned away to sit with 
her face hidden from me. But I knew what 
the Avords meant to her, and I thought I 
heard her speak Avhen I had done. " The 
Colonel, nevertheless, continued to speak. 

“ For the outrages offered to you here I 
apologise and Avill atone. A clever man is 
not necessarily a gentleman, though his 
cleA^erness should make him one. You haA^e 
been badly treated, and reparation must 
be made. If it rested Avith me alone, I 
might even ask myself how I could open 
these doors and let you free ; but there are 
those Avho Avould call me a traitor to France, 
and that, by God’s help, I Avill never be. 


Give me your Avord as as an officer to remain 
here—for the time being, at any rate—and I 
Avill see that you are treated as a soldier and 
a gentleman. Frankly, and as man to man, 
you Avill never escape from this house ; 
escape is impossible. You have done all that 
your country could ask of you and more. 
Let Beason have lier turn and accept the 
inevitable. I can give you no better advice. 
Some day these clouds may lift, and you 
and I may begin a happier friendship. I 
Avould change much that I prize of life for 
such a day and such an opportunity.” 

His voice sank almost to a Avhisper, and I 
saw that he AA^as greatly moved. 

“ The day may be nearer than you think. 
Colonel,” Avas my reply, when moments of 
silence had passed. “As for your question, 
there is but one ansAver to it. I go back 
to the garret. But I shall go Avith the 
knoAAdedge that you, at least, are blameless. 
For the rest, ask yourself as a soldier Avhat 
you AA^ould do in my place ? Would you 
give your Avord or AAithhold it ? ” 

Pie stood up and held out his hand to me. 

“ I salute an Plnglishman,” he said. 

He AA^ould liaA^e gone on, I believe, to 
have spoken more intimately to me in that 
moment; but there came a knock upon the 
door, and his look of alarm Avas not to be 
misread. I understood that he Avished to 
terminate the interview. 

“ I thank you for your sympathy. Colonel,” 
I said ; “ there is only one Avord more, and 
it is this. Those AAdio come to my country 
on such a AA-ork are madmen and not soldiers. 
I pay you the compliment of distinguishing 
you from them, both in act and Avord. When 
you need me in England, you may not find 
me less ready than you have proved. A Ion 
entendeur. And to Mademoiselle-” 

I turned to Agnes—she Avas still looking 
doAvn upon the old AA^alled garden and the 
tangled floAvers which gave it a sheen of gold 
and crimson and all the fuller glory of the 
autumn. PYr a moment she did not seem to 
hear me, but Avhen 1 was about to pass on 
she caught my hand suddenly in hers, and, 
bending her little head, she kissed it. 

“ I remember,” she said—that and nothing 
more. 

And I left her standing there, as a figure 
of the spring-time caught up suddenly in the 
sunshine ; and this picture of her I carried 
to my darkened room and thought it was 
dark no more. 


(7b he continued.') 



THE FUTURE OF AFRICA. 


By Ernest E. Williams."' 


The JIaPtNetio Continent. 

I SUPPOSE for some years to come we 
shall go OH speaking of Africa as the 
Dark Continent. But we shall be 
doing Africa an injustice. If there is one 
part of the world more than another into 
which floods of the light of Western civilisa¬ 
tion have been poured of late, and are going 
to be poured in yet greater quantities in the 
near future, that part of the world is the 
African Continent. Two years ago Lord 
Kitchener threw it open fi’om the nortli ; 


When a Cook’s tour will take you into the 
heart of a Continent it is time to leave off 
calling it Dark. A better name would be 
the Magnetic Continent; for such it is 
to-day, and such it has been for all time 
since the history of tlie human race began. 

Co back to the early days of Eome; 
and the African question, in the person of 
Haiini])al and the locality of Carthage, or 
of Cleopatra and Egypt, agitated the Juiblic 
mind. Turn to the first book of the Iffble, 
and you read of the patriarch Abraham 
making his pilgrimage into Africa. Through- 



to-day Lord Roberts, assisted by Lord 
Kitchener, is throwing it open from the 
south and Mr. Rhodes is going to pierce 
the intervening gloom with his railway and 
telegi’aph. The work of explora,tion and 
civilisation is proceeding in other quarters of 
the Continent—by the French working down 
from the north-west, by the English working 
inwards from the west : indeed, from eveiy 
quarter the shafts of light are probing the 
interior of the misnamed Dark Continent. 


* Copyrii-lit, 1900, Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 


out tlie iMiddleAges men told strange stories 
of tlie wonderful lands lying soutliwards of 
the country of the Moors, of the gold and 
ivory to be found therein, of sumptuous 
Ethiopian inonarchs wielding sway over realms 
hidden among the mountains of the interior, 
of terrible savages and still more strange 
and terrifying beasts—legends surviving in 
Sebastian Cabot’s pictorial map. In modern 
times the magnetism of Afi’ica has increased 
rather than diminished. Spain and Portugal, 
the imperial nations of an earlier day, 
colonised and traded and raided on its 
coasts ; their successors, the Dutch and the 







538 


TUB WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



Photo supplied &?/] 

NATIVE DANCE AT A VILLAGE IN NIGERIA. 


English, strngglecl for possession of the 
colonies at the'sonthern extremity, the while 
Napoleon was deeming his conquests incom¬ 
plete till he had gained dominion in the 
north. Not all the lierrors and perils of the 
dark, nnknown forest conld dissuade Living¬ 
stone and Stanley and the other intrepid 
African explorers of the nineteenth century 
from penetrating into the heart of the 
Continent and revealing the secrets of the 
great lakes. 

To-day the glamour is potent as ever. 
They may call themselves scientific explorers, 
or missionaries, or ‘‘ emissaries of civili¬ 
sation,” or mere trading agents ; by whatever 
name, the Continent of the Sphinx still draws 
men to her. Not long since some half- 
dozen independent parties were racing to 
the shores of Lake Chad, the while their 
respective Governments were pondering and 
quarrelling over the latest practicable expan¬ 
sions of the Spheres of Interest. 

The world folloAVS all tliese developments 
with acnte, at times with l)reathless, interest. 
The kaleidoscope is ever shifting ; iioav it is 
the Jameson raid in the Transvaal, now the 
Hinterland struggle with France and Nigeria, 
anon the overtlirow of Dervish misrule aiid 
the avenging of Gordon at Khartum ; again, 
Fashoda is on every man’s lips ; for a year 
past Son til Africa has held onr breathless 
interest. There is not a civilised Power but 
is more or less drawn into the vortex. Eng¬ 
land’s interests are ])aramount, but France is 
only less embroiled ; Germany has seized 
huge territories ; Italy is there ; Belginm 
has inherited from her king the vast lands 


of the Congo Free 
State ; even decay¬ 
ing Portugal and 
Spain retain their 
African possessions; 
and the other na¬ 
tions which lack land 
in Africa have yet 
a bond of interest 
in tlie international 
muddle in Egypt, in 
trade with the Con¬ 
tinent, in the hunt 
for its gold. And 
for some time yet 
the African kaleido¬ 
scope will continue 
to scintillate before 
men’s eyes. Fashoda 
AA-as but an incident 
in the final delimi¬ 
tation of Equatorial 
Africa, and a struggle may yet blaze out 
fiercely and Avith momentous issues ere the 
delimitation of Africa is finally settled. 

England in Africa. 

Against this Europeanisation of Africa 
certain Avortliy though parochial souls at times 
lift up their voices. The number of such has 
fallen ofP almost to vanishing point in these 
new days of Imperialism. Yet the cry may 
still at times be heard, “ AVhat right have Ave 
Europeans in Africa ? Avhy despoil the noble 
savage of his ancestral domains ? ” or Avords 
to that effect; I need not repeat tlie Avliole 
formula. It suffices to point out that Ave go 
to those countries for those countries’ good, 
as well as for onr oavu. No one can read the 
history of England in Africa and reach any 
other conclusion. 

The Guinea Coast. 

Begin Avith onr Possessions in West Africa. 
Onr main Avork there has been to save the 
natives from themselves. We have destroyed 
slavery. Sierra Leone, indeed, Avas specially 
settled as an asylum for freed slaves, Avhose 
descendants AA^e are educating. We have 
abolished the bloody horrors of the hinter¬ 
land of the Gold Coast Colony, erstwhile 
the kingdom of Ashanti, now a Tkitish pro¬ 
tectorate. Back in the early years of the 
century British lives ay ere sacrificed in the 
endeavour to save the inhabitants from the 
foul terror of the Avholesale human sacrifices 
Avhich made the land accursed ; again, in the 
seventies. Sir Garnet Wolseley’s soldiers 




THE FUTURE OF AFRICA. 


539 


broke the power of King Koffee and 
destroyed his blood-reeking capital ; yet 
again, and finally, four years ago. King 
Prempeh and liis groves of bloodshed and 
liis huge execution bowl, where the heads of 
men, women, and children had for years been 
dropping in horrible heaps, were swept away 
into the nightmares of the past, and the 
Union Jack came to stay, though, as the 
events of this year have shown, not without 
continued trouble and loss of life. 

But colonising is not undertaken solely 
out of altruistic regard for the aborigine, 
however noble he may be. It is rather one' 
of those beneficent acts which bless the giver 
as well as the receiver. In this regard one 
must fain admit that at the present time our 
West Coast Colonies are scarcely as productive 
as could be hoped. The deadly climate is 
one hindering factor ; the methods of Prance, 
in seizing hinterlands and obstructing onr 
trade thither, is another. Mayhap some day 
the draining of swamps and other works of 
sanitation will make the climate less deadly 
to physical health, and a lot of things may 
happen to make Prench obstruction less 
deadly to onr trade ; and then a brighter 
future may dawn on Gambia and Sierra 
Leone and Lagos and the Gold Coast. 

Already the export of valuable native 


woods is increasing. The very name of one 
Colony suggests gold, and the ancient indus¬ 
try has been revived during the last decade, 
the export being now worth nearly £100,000 
a year ; and wlio knows liow soon discovery 
may bring West x\frica into line with South 
Africa ? Experts declare the reefs in the 
Gold Coast to be similar to those of the 
Rand ; and the hindrance to development 
by the lack of transport for machinery is 
being removed by the construction of a 
(iovernment railway to the mining regions. 
These countries are also exMence the 
land of indiarubber ; yet the industry is a 
new one, though the export from the Gold 
Coast is already worth over £300,000 a year. 
This industry alone, in view of the growing 
use of rubber, should provide our West 
Coast Colonies with a future. 

Kigeria. 

Here we tread on more spacious and more 
liopeful ground—more spacious, for the 
territories lately taken over from the Niger 
Company, apart from the extensive lands 
comprised in the Niger Coast Protectorate, 
stretch over more than half a million square 
miles ; more hopeful, because the history of 
these territories is the record of a magnifi- 



[Xeville Edtoards, Littlehampton. 


Photo by} 


ON A CAPE OSTRICH FARM. 



540 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


cent piece of Eiiipire-bnildiiig, crowned with 
success politically, and with enough success 
industrially to justify great hopes. 

The pioneer work of Sir (leorge Goldie’s 
Company has been accomplished, and its 
domains have noAV been fully incorporated 
into the British Empire. Of late it has been 
the fashion among Little Englanders to 
decry chartered companies ; if they can 
find aught to object to in the work of the 
Koyal Niger Company, their powers of 
observation must be strangely acute. That 
corporation began modestly in 1871), as the 
United African Company, with a capital of 
£125,000. But Sir George Goldie saw the 
great possibilities before him. Three years 
later the Company had become the National 
African Company, Avith a capital of a million ; 
in 188G the Koyal Niger Company. Never 
Avas a million better spent. Acknowledging 
the suzerainty of the Sultan of Sokoto, Sir 
George Goldie made treaties Avith his A^assal 
kings and AA^elded his Empire into a homo¬ 
geneous AAdiole. Native chiefs Avere appeased, 
French traders bought and croAvded out, the 
Niger dotted Avith stations and factories, 
fleets of steamers ploughed its AA^aters, and 
gradually the most populous and extensive 
Empire in the whole of the Sudan—the 
population is variously estimated at from 
tAventy to thirty-five millions—Avas brought 
under control. Not without fighting, liow- 
CA^er — the Niger Company’s troops had 
their share of that. And—mark again—the 
o])ject of this fighting Avas to redeem the 
natives from the tyranny of slavery and 
oppression. The 1897 campaign against the 
Sultan of Nupe testifies this. It Avas 
followed by a decree abolishing slave-trading 
throughout the Niger Territories—a decree 
most appropriately dating from Diamond 
Jubilee Day. 

In the Niger Protectorate, too, British 
guns have thundered out the doom of the 
reign of blood. Mr. Phillips’s death, in 
1897, was shortly afterAvards amply avenged 
by the Imperial Government’s campaign 
against the King of Benin—the City of 
Blood—and his fetish priests, and their 
crucifixion trees and human sacrifices. 

The insatiable appetite of France for 
hinterlands brought England in the spring 
of 1898 into critical relations Avith her, 
consequent on her attempts to seize British 
territories in the Niger Basin. And the 
agreement of June of the same year, under 
Avhich the dispute Avas compromised, though 
it has shorn British Nigeria of certain slices 
of territory, has yet left a compact and 


ample empire wherein British industrial 
entei’prise may develop under the mgis of 
the British flag. That the trade Avill be 
great may be gathered from the fact that 
in 1899 the exports from the Territories 
Avere worth more than half a million sterling, 
and that cocoa and coffee plantations are 
noAv being established Avith good prospects 
of success, and encouraging reports are to 
hand concerning tlie agricultural resources. 
That the administration Avill be good is 
evidenced by the heavy duties imposed on 
spirits and gunpowder, and the prohibition 
of the spirit trade over nineteen-tAventieths 
of the Territories. 

South Africa. 

Coming south to Cape Colony Ave enter a 
land which has a liistory as Avell as a future. 
It is four centuries since a Portuguese 
mariner discovered the Cape, over tAVO and 
a half centuries since Englishmen first took 
possession of it, and nearly that time since 
the Dutch East India Company first began 
colonisation, Avith their trading post estab¬ 
lished at Table Bay as a stopping-place on 
the Indian route. But before many genera¬ 
tions had passed it AA^as found that the great 
country AAdiich formed Table Bay’s hinter¬ 
land Avas AA'orth colonising for its OAvn sake. 
So began the struggle betAveeu English and 
Dutch for possession. England triumphed, 
though Holland has left her legacy of trouble 
in the eternal Afrikander question. 

England has achieved great things at the 
Cape in the years since 1820, AAdien 4,000 
settlers, aided by a Biltish Government 
grant of £50,000, landed at Algoa Bay. Of 
Cape Colony’s 177,000,000 acres—that in¬ 
cludes Ibltish Bechuanaland—more than 
120,000,000 acres have been settled. The 
Cape noAV ranks high among the self- 
governing Colonies of the British Empire, 
and its combined AAdiite and coloured popula¬ 
tions, including the Griqualand and other 
appurtenances, is little, if at all, short of 
one and a half millions, of AAdiom rather 
less than a third are AA’hites. Here, again, 
England’s presence has been AA'holly for 
the good of the natives, Avhose numbers in 
many of the districts doubled betAveen the 
census of 1875 and 1891. Out of care for 
the natives, Basutoland has been set apart 
for their exclusive use, European settlement 
being prohibited, although the country is 
AA^ell Avatered, has a fine climate, is said to be 
the best grain-producing country in South 
Africa, and has grass-lands Avhich enable the 


THE FUTURE OF AFRICA, 


541 


Basiitos to rear immense herds of cattle. 
Nortliwards, in the Ikcbuanaland Pro¬ 
tectorate, the solicitude for iiative Avelfare is 
displayed in tlie prohibition of the sale of 
spirits. 

But the white men have not neglected 
their own industrial development. In the 
year ended May, 1898, 2,0()(),000 bushels of 
wheat were produced, and about 8,000,000 
bushels of oats, barley, mealies, Kaffir corn 
and rye; 0,000,000 lb. of tobacco, over 
48,000,0001b. of Avool, OA'Cr 250,000 lb. of 
ostrich feathers, and over 8,000,0001b. of 


development shall have extended northAvards 
till they join hands Avith those coming 
steadily doAvn from Egypt. Already the 
home-produced exports of the Colony are 
Avorth some seventeen millions a year. 

Natal is overshadoAved by her greater 
sister—or should Ave say her mother ?— 
but she, too, has honourable record and fair 
promise. Between 1879 and 1891 her 
European and Indian populations more than 
doubled, and her Kaffir population made 
such progress that the total of the Colony’s 
inhabitants rose from 301,587 to 548,918. 


• ■ I 



A CAIMC VI^’1^YAI^1) IN FEliHUAHY. 


butter. The Colony’s vine stocks yielded 
4,250,000 gallons of Avine, 1,400,000 gallons 
of brandy, and 2,000,000 lb. of raisins. It 
held 2,250,000 head of cattle. Moreover, 
that test of adA^ancing development, the 
establishment of manufactures, may likeAvise 
be called in evidence. The 1891 census is 
the latest available. In that year nine and 
:i quarter million pounds’ worth of manu- 
Factures AA^ere produced iii Cape Colony. 
Ihese sample statistics not only show the 
progress which has been made, but are an 
3arnest of the greater things to come, Avhen 
British rule and British railways and British 


A few years ago her borders AA^ere enlarged 
by the promising additions of Zululand and 
British Amatongaland. Though at present 
her Avealth is mainly agriculUiral, as that 
AA’ord is understood among us northerners, 
such ncAv industries of the held as sugar¬ 
cane and tea plantations are now taking 
their place among Natal’s industries. The 
other helds beneath the surface also look like 
furnishing Natal Avith much Avealth in the 
future. She may not possess much gold, 
but she has stores of iron and the best 
sort of coal, and noAv that she has direct 
communication betAA^een the goldhelds of 




542 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


the Transvaal and the port of Durban, 
lier minini>^ industry is destined to rapid 
development. 

SciirsMATrc South Afhica. 

Until the present year this was tlie 
description of two territories in tlie midst of 
English South Africa. But the Orange Free 
State and the Sontli African Ecpnljlic, which 
were once under the British Crown, took a 
course whicli has brought them under the 
British Grown again. 

The Orange Eivcr Colony, a country now 
containing over (1,000 farms situated in 
excellent grazing land, producing diamonds, 
whose value in I BOG was £4GB,1G5, con¬ 
taining garnets and other precious stones, 
and ricli coal mines, and at least some gold, 
was annexed by England in 1848. Six years 
later Little England, enthroned at Downing 
Street, in deference to a noisy faction of the 
inhabitants, but in violation of the wishes 
of the rest and of the feeling in Cape 
Colony, in deference, above all, to its own 
miserable Cnt-the-paintei’ theory, abandoned 
the Orange Eiver Sovereignty to its dis¬ 
affected llntcliincn, and permitted them to 
form an independent republic. The gra¬ 
tuitous folly of this proceeding has since 
been made quite plain. 

But the Orange Free State, until it threw 
ill its lot with the Transvaal Boers, did 


liehave itself, and in this respect was unlike 
its sister Eepnblic. Some of the most 
melancholy chapters of the modem history 
of the British Empire centre around the 
Transvaal. Unwisely, as events have so 
plainly and so unhappily shown, England in 
1852 recognised its independence. The 
congeries of sipiabbliiig factions which com¬ 
prised the new Eepnblic made a wretched 
attempt at self-government. Bankrupt and 
helpless before its native enemies, it became 
clear within a quarter of a century that the 
continued independence of the Eepnblic was 
a standing menace to the peace and prosperity 
of South Africa ; and at the beginning of 
1877 British sovereignty was resumed. 
Though President Burgers was wise enough 
to see the benefit of this resumption, his 
narrow-minded and ignorant subjects pre¬ 
ferred to “ stew in their own juice,” even at 
the cost of war. War came, the Boers 
having been encouraged in their resistance 
by Gladstone’s misleading oratory. For 
Gladstone, now in power, sent a few^ soldiers 
to reduce the rebels to submission, and 
when, owing to mischances and bad leading, 
the British troops were severely—though, of 
course, only temporarily—defeated, Gladstone 
gave them back their independence, under 
British suzerainty, in the Convention of 
1881. In 1884 a new Convention was 
granted, which fatuously glided over the 
suzerainty, though it did not abolish it. 



Phdo byl [Neville Edivards, LitLlehain]}tov. 


THK IIOMK OK TIIK IMNKAPIMJO. 



TflE FUTURE OF AFRICA. 


543 



A KIM15HULKY DIAMOND MINK. 


Transvaal affairs went afterwards from bad 
to worse. So unfitted for self-government 
were the Boers that our Conventions vyitli 
them had to make very express stipulations 
that the Swazis under their protection should 
bo decently treated ; hut there should also 
have been included more detailed stipulations 
that white men should be decently treated. 
As all the world knows, they have been 
shamefully maltreated. In other _ countries 
nationalisation suffices to give an iminigiant 
full rights of citizenship in the adopted 
country. Not so in Kruger’s land. The 
best half of the population, the half—more 
than half, to be accurate in numbers—which 
produces nearly all of^ the country’s wealth 
and represents all its intelligence is recmced 
to the status of helots, to quote the High 
Coiuinissioiier’s word ; and hy all sorts ot 
foolish and unjust means the industry under 
their control has been hampered. 

All this was the more intolerable in that 
the country which Com Paul misruled has 
splendid industrial resources. There is no 
need to speak of the prolific goldhelds ; they 
are in everyone’s minds. And gold is not 
the only wealth ; there are silver, copper, 
and lead mines (though for the last live 
years their working has been suspended) ; 
there are tin mines in Swaziland ; the country 
abounds in iron and coal. There are magni¬ 
ficent agricultural and stock-raising lands, 
though their development has scarce begun. 


Now that the Transvaal is once more ^yithln 
the British Empire it should have a future 
worthy even of tliat Empire. 

CiOTKAL Africa. 

As we go north, annoyance over past 
mistakes gives place to undiluted enthusiasm 
over future prospects. We approach the 
great work of Mr. Rhodes. It is tweiity-tvo 
years since Mr. Rhodes unrolled his map of 
Africa, and, sweeping his hand upwards from 
the Cape to the Zambesi, said, ‘‘That’s my 
dream—all this to be English.” ^ Already his 
dream is more than realised it is now all 
English, and much higher up than the 
Zambesi. Under the aigis of the British 
South xVfrica Company, South Africa merges 
in Central Africa under the Union Jack. 
During the eighties it became clear that 
Matabeleland and Mashonaland, the p’eat 
countries lying north-east of Bechuanaland, 
could not much longer remain under the 
cruel sway of Lobengula. Tlie reports of 
o-oldfields and possible harvest-fields, and the 
obvious designs thereon of the neighbouiing 
Boers and Portuguese, convinced Mr. Rhodes, 
who convinced the Imperial Government, 
that the time had come to extend our effective 
sphere of inlluence. The work was assigned 
to the great Chartered Company. Colonisation 
be^^an"first by arrangement with Lobengula, 
in^lSOO, but ere three years had elapsed it 





544 


TEE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


became clear that the power of this monarcli, 
which was ])eiiig exercised to the oppression 
of the Mashoiias, who were under British 
protection, would have to be broken. Under 
the leadership of Dr. Jameson it was broken, 
and Matabeleland and Mashonalaiid, witli a 
combined area of ] 41,000 square miles, 
became Son them Ehodesia under the British 
flag and the South Africa Company’s adminis- 
Uation. ^ Two years ago an Order of the 
Queen in Conncil advanced the constitu¬ 
tional govei’ument of this great j^i’ovince a 
further stage. 

Crossing the Zambesi, we come to Northern 
Rhodesia and Nyassaland, or Jhdtish Central 


ment, consolidated a territory of some three 
hundred thousand square miles of what is 
described as the best land in Africa. And, 
again mark it, slavery has been rigidly and 
elfectively suppressed over a region liitherto 
devastated by Arab slave-raiders. Now, distant 
though it yet is from civilisation, Nyassaland 
IS progressing towards prosperityunder IRRisli 
law and order. Big crops of coffee are being 
gatliered, rice is said to grow to perfection, 
and the farming associated with temperate 
regions has also excellent prospects. The 
Company has been absorbed into the Ifritisli 
South Africa Company, though its territory 
is now administered from the Foreign Office 



[-Vei’t7/e L'dwards, JAitlthamptun. 


Africa proper. Imperial work in Nyassaland 
has a longer history tlian Rhodesia’s, dating 
from Livingstone’s Zand)esi travels some 
forty years ago. Here, too, we have develop¬ 
ment by chartered company. The Livingstone 
Central Africa Company began to make setfle- 
ments^ and open up to navigation the lakes 
and^ rivers of this region in 1878 ; enter¬ 
prising Scotcllinen connected Lakes Nyassa 
and Tanganyika by road, planted coffee, 
taught the natives industry. Under the 
name of the x\frican Lakes Company the 
corporation continued the good work, and, 
aided by agreements with Germany and 
Portugal, negotiated by the Imperial Govern- 


as a Protectorate. AVith respect to the rest 
of file country south of the Congo State and 
dividingthe Portuguese East and AATst African 
Possessions, it has since 1891 lieen placed by 
Her Majesty’s Government under the control 
of the South Africa Company, wliich is now 
charged witli the development of avast estate 
comprising about :^51,()0() square miles, with 
a. native population estimated at ()50,O()0. 
As yet, of course, settlement is in its infancy, 
but the work is going forward. The country, 
according to Air. Rhodes, is not yet quite 
ripe for the agriculturist, but his time will 
conic. At present the quest of minerals, and 
chiefly gold, is deemed the main business. 















THE FUTURE OF AFRICA. 


545 


Development in this and otlier industrial 
directions m\i receive a l)ig fillip if Professor 
Forbes’s plan of utilising the Avaters of the 
Zambesi at Victoria Falls for transmitting 
electrical poAver to the nascent llhodesian 
goldfields achieA'es fruition. 

Cape to Caiko. 

But real progress in these regions aAvaits 
the railway; and here is a convenient place 
to remind ourselves of Mr. Khodes’s great 
scheme. The Cape to Cairo Bailway has been 
called a dream—has indeed been smiled at 
as a dream ; it is more correctly described as 
a vision. And the vision is quickly materi¬ 
alising. Already the railway runs from Cape 
ToAvn right through the Colony, right 
through Beclinanaland, aaMI into Southern 
Rhodesia, through BnlaAA'ayo, to GaaMo and 
beyond. Already the railAA^ay from Cairo 
comes dowiiAvards through LoAver and Upper 
Egypt into the Egyptian Sudan to Khartum. 

The Imperial Government Avas asked to 
give a'guarantee to facilitate the raising of 
the needed capital for the Tanganyika section 
of the Cape to Cairo line, and Mr. Rhodes’s 
assurance that the recently opened line to 
BuhiAvayo already more than paid its Avay 
should have spurred the Government to gene¬ 
rous compliance. Unhappily, the Imperial 
])urse-strings Avere not at the time controlled 
by an Imperial imagination, and the con¬ 
ditions attached to the aid eventually offered 
were such as obviously precluded acceptance. 
But English investors had more faith, and 
the necessary money has been easily found. 
The tremendous undertaking of linking 
Xorth and South Africa by railway aauII do 
more than aught else to consolidate England’s 
great African dominion, and the GoA^ernment 
should have been grateful that it had a man 
to take the Avork largely on his own 
shoulders. The Russian Government has 
had itself to undertake the planning and 
construction of the Trans-Siberian RailAA^ay, a 
work of similiar magnitude ; the English 
Government Avas only asked to guaranteO 
some interest in connection Avith the Cape to 
Cairo Railway. 

Even supposing the traffic on the raihvay 
AA^ere destined to be small, and the under¬ 
taking commercially unprofitable, the con¬ 
struction Avould be Avorth the cost. But 
there are no grounds for fearing that the 
line A\dll not liaA'-e a bright future, even 
commercially. As Mr. 'Rhodes told the 
Cape Legislature, that section of the scheme 
at present under discussion—the Tanganyika 


Railway—is alone bound to enhance the 
prosperity of Cape Colony. Rhodesia Avill 
quickly develop Avhen it has the line, and 
]nany commodities Avill be needed from the 
Cape, Avhich Avill also be brought by the 
railAvay into touch Avith the Congo State. 
Furthermore, great irrigation Avorks are 
needed and in prospect in Cape Colon}% but 
the present dearness of labour there hinders 
their construction. The raihvay is expected 
to bring doAvn a plentiful supply of the 
cheap labour of Avhich the Congo State has a 
surplus. 

British East Africa. 

Here again Ave have to record the magnifi¬ 
cent pioneer AVork of a chartered company. 
The vast region once knoAvn colloquially as 
Ibea, from the initials of the Imperial British 
East Africa Company, is uoav divided into 
three British Protectorates—the East Africa, 
the Uganda, and the Zanzibar. As the 
boundaries on tbe north and the AA'Cst have 
not yet been delimited, it is not possible to say 
exactly hoAV large a territory is covered by 
the term British East Africa ; but it is not 
less than a million square miles, and the 
intrigues and restlessness of Frenchmen 
and Abyssinians Avill doubtless soon cause 
England to make a delimitation on a 
generous scale, and bring the total area to 
Avell upAvards of a million square miles. It 
can hardly be said that we have yet begun 
to colonise in East Africa, unless it be in 
Uganda, AAdiich has an exceedingly fertile 
soil and Avill doubtless ere long be dotted 
Avith coffee plantations. Development aAvaits 
transport, and this the Imperial Government 
is providing. Appreciating the need for a 
railway, the Foreign Office decided not to 
Avait for the private capitalist, but itself pro¬ 
jected, and has already partly constructed 
and opened, a raihvay from Mombasa, on the 
Zanzibar Coast, to the Victoria Nyaiiza. The 
natural difficulties are and have been great, 
but according to the latest reports success 
seems assured. But one serious mistake has 
been made—the line is constructed on a 
gauge Avhich just falls short of the gauge 
adopted on the raihvays of Upper Egypt. 
This is an extraordinary mistake, seeing that 
the Uganda Railway is to be joined to the 
Upper Egypt Railway. The present arrange¬ 
ment Avill entail all tbe bother and expense 
of transhipment, and the economy in con¬ 
struction is infinitesimal. 

The Somaliland Protectorate, on tbe 
north-eastern horn of the African coast, Avas, 
until a year ago, reckoned officially as 
^ " 2 P 


540 


THE ^yIKl)HOli MAGAZINE, 





NATINE EISUINC-TllArS ON THE CONiJO KIVEIJ. 


a part of Asia, and was placed under the 
Indian Governinent. Now, however, it is 
transferred to the Foreign ()fhce, and ranks 
officially—as it is geographically—among 
our East African Possessions, to which it 
adds a territory of some 08,000 scpiare miles. 
It may some day he found to possess indus¬ 
trial value, hut it was occupied by us for 
strategic purposes connected with the safety 
of our route to India. AYlien the trade of 
the interior increases, British Somaliland, 
Avith its ports on the Pted Sea, may exercise 
a useful commercial function as a point of 
concentration for trade routes ; but among 
Englishmen it is chiefly valued, at present, 
by Nimrocls in search of big game. It AA^ould 
also seem to liaA^e an historical interest, for 
prehistoric implements have been found in 
such large numbers that Mr. Seton-Karr 
puts foi'Avard the theory that British Somali¬ 
land is really the cradle of the human race. 
It Avould be quite appropriate that the British 
Empire should contain Avithin its borders the 
site of the Garden of Eden. 

Egypt and the Egyptian Sudan. 

I have left until last those Egyptian 
Possessions Avhich the “ smashing of the 
Khalifa ” made to loom so largely in men’s 
minds, and Avhich are consequently so Avell 
knoAvn by report to Englishmen that they 


do not need here tlie detailed reference they 
Avould otherAvise justly claim. 

Englishmen have done much to cidiance 
the prosperity of other lands, but surely no- 
AA’here have their magnificent administrative 
capacities been so splendidly shoAvn forth as 
in the land of the Pharaohs. We Avent there 
in 1882, to a country torn by rebellion, 
made bankrupt by the foolish prodigal Avho 
essayed to rule it, though his Avretched people 
Avere ground into dire poverty by taxation, 
and though the country Awas endoAA'ed Avith 
natural resources to make it Avealthy. AYe 
Avent there Avhen France, notAvithstanding 
that she had coA^eted Egypt and regarded it 
as in a sense her OAvn, shrank from the task 
of helping it in its need. AYe have stayed 
there in spite of goA’ernmental chaos and the 
constant harassings of the disappointed and 
jealous Frenchmen ; Ave haA^e fought the 
spectre of bankruptcy, brought the finances 
into something like order, reduced the debt, 
reduced the taxes, made justice possible, and, 
by the construction of magniliccnt Avater- 
Avorks, husbanded the Avaters of the Nile, 
Egypt’s life stream. If ever a man saved a 
country. Lord Cromer has saved Egypt. 

Nor has our Avork stayed at the boundaries 
of Egypt proper. AA^e have broken the 
hideous dominion of the Dervishes, and 
after the sacrifice of the floAver of our 
men —Gordon is but one—Ave have, Avith 









THE FUTURE OF AFRICA. 


547 


tlie final victory over tlic Ivlialifa at 
Omdnrman, completely restored to Mgypt 
her great Possessions in the Sudan, whicli 
had been temporarily wrested from her. 
And now by every right, by higlier rights 
than concpiest, Egypt and tlie Egyptian 
Sudan are ours. Still, unfortunately—for 
the present unsatisfactory system is pro¬ 
ductive of considerable misunderstanding and 
hindrance to the development of the country 
—England refrains from making formal 
declaration of the very real protectorate she 
exercises over Egypt; but it is to be hoped 
that, when the present troubles disturbing 
the world are over, the formal declaration of 
onr protectorate will not be delayed. 

The Prokex Cross. 

When Egypt and the Egyptian Sudan 
are incorporated, the drawing of the Ked 
Cross of British Empire over the map of 
Africa will be well in process of achievement. 
It Avill not be completed then. The cross 
will still remain broken in more than one 
place ; for in the councils of Downing Street 
in the earlier ante-Tmperial days the Empire’s 
expansion was nsnally regarded with aversion 
and dislike, and when it was encouraged the 
enconragement was fortuitous and haphazard. 


and no statesmanlike plan was followed. 
AW this has got to be altered. Comparatively 
little of Africa remains now outside European 
influence, and nothing is more certain than 
that within a generation or so that little will 
have been absorbed. What is to bo our 
portion ? Our portion is the Eed Cross. 
“ Plave .we not enough, or more than 
enough ? ” the Little Englander may cry. 
In a sense we have ; in a sense we have not. 
We have rivals and enemies on all sides, 
we have needs and aspirations and methods 
which are other than theirs. For this and 
for other obvious reasons needs must that 
we consolidate onr Empire, and, a fortiori, 
our African Empire must be consolidated. 
This cannot be done effectively uidess we 
join up the Broken Cross. Our various 
African Colonies must dovetail into each 
other. 

Now look at the map. Work upwards 
from south to north. We possess uninter¬ 
rupted communication northwards to Lake 
Tanganyika; but then comes a break of 
some four hundred and fifty miles (including 
the Lake itself, which occupies the greater 
part of the distance). This intervening 
territory is occupied on one side by tlm 
Congo Free State, on the other by German 
East Africa. With one or both of those 



.MWAM STATION, ON THK CAPK TO CAIRO HAILWAV. 








548 


THE WINDSOR MAGAEANE. 


Powers we imisfc arrange for a cession of a 
strip of land to connect Nortliern Rhodesia 
with Uganda. It is a mere matter of business, 
and sliould be easily accomplished.^ The 
rights of pre-emption given by Belgium to 
France might complicixte the acquisition by 
England of any of the Congo State lauds. 
AYith respect to German territory, there is 
Mr. Rhodes’s suggestion that Ave should 
exchange our Possessions in Wallish Bay for 
a strip of German East Africa. Germany 
lias far more, land than, she knows Avhat to 
do Avith, and a slice of her unexplored hinter¬ 
land Avould not be missed by her, Avhile she 
Avould gain real advantage by getting into 
her possession AVallish Bay, Avhich is set in 
the midst of her Sonth-TYest African Colonies, 
and appears to be one of the very few 
harlionrs on the coast Avorth the name. 

It is AA’hen Ave come to the lateral arms of 
the Cross that the breaks appear more serious. 
AYorking from Avest to east, Ave are confronted 
Avith France’s extraA'agant claims to hinter¬ 
land. She has jockeyed the rest of Europe 
out of pretty Aveil the Avhole interior of West 
Africa. In view of the possessions of the 
other PoAvers on the coast, and of France’s 
inability to make any effectiA'e colonising or 
commercial use of the tremendous area she 
claims, her pretensions must be set aside to 


the extent of making OAxr to ns a strip of 
territory through the French Sudan and the 
hinterland of Dahomey. She might have 
compensation. AYe might give her Gambia, 
Avhich at present divides her Senegalese Pos¬ 
sessions. From Germany Ave need the end 
of her back yard, so to speak, in. Togoland. 
Then on the east of Lake Chad we must 
negotiate for a strip from France ; and 
as to the AYadai State, AAn might Avell 
share that Avith. France, giving her the 
southern part as an extension of her Ubangi 
dominion, and ourselves taking the northern. 
AYe should then have a clear run through 
the Egyptian Sudan to Abyssinia. AYell, 
Abyssinia is an independent kingdom just 
noAV. It thinks itself civilised—an opinion 
AN'hich civilised nations do not seem to share. 
As matter of fact, it is doomed to go the 
Avay of the rest of Barbarous Africa. France 
certainly has designs upon it, des})ite the 
friendship Avhich she finds it convenient at 
present to profess toAAnrds Aleiielik. For a 
few years prior to 180G Abyssinia Avas an 
Italian Protectorate, and Avhen the inevitable 
partition comes Italy might Avell resume her 
])rotectorate over the northern portion, 
leaAung to France the central portion 
bounded on the south by the Ilarrar RaiLvay, 
Avhich she is vigorously pushing forward, and 



DATK-rALM WOOD ON Til K SI’I'K OK LOST MKMKllIS. 













THE EUTl'llE OF AFRICA. 


54 !) 



OUTSIDE CAIRO: SUNSET NEAR RODU. 

From a loater-colour hy John Varley; reproduced hy permhsion of Mr. John Ward, F.S.A., f rom his Pyramids and Prooress. 


to Enpjlaiid the sontliern portion, which would 
then join np, as a northward extension, Avith 
British East Africa. Tims the Cross would 
he completed. It would be a bit crooked in 
design here and there, ’tis true, but it would 
represent an effective consolidation of our 
gi*eat African Empire. It is the duty of 
English statesmen to accomplish it. 

’Tis needful, hoAvever, to bear in mind 
that other expansions of our African Empire 
are possible and may become advisable. 
There are the Eying Nations to be considered; 
and the Dying Nations luwe their footing in 
Africa. Portugal and Spain hold between 
them nearly a inillion square miles of African 
territory. It is doubtful whether they Avill 
be able or Avill Avant to hold them mucli 
longer. Certainly Portugal is not equal to 
her 82G,7P>0 square miles ; in her jwesent 
lame and bankrujDt condition she sliould 
be only too glad to sell at least a portion 
of them, and Portuguese East Africa aaIII 
doubtless be divided betAA^een Germany and 
England, her neighbours. England"must 
be heir to the southern half, Avhich includes 
Beira, Avhence runs the railway into Rhodesia, 
and Delagoa Bay, the sea entrance to the 
Transvaal. If rumours are true, this 
partition is already provided for as a future 
contingency. I am not proposing any high¬ 
handed treatment of Portugal. Ve should 
only besmirch our good name by adopting 


the inethods of the United States in respect 
to Spanish Colonies. I am only anticipating 
the time AAdien Portugal shall, on her oAvn 
motion, boAA^ to the inevitable renunciation 
of an African Empire to Avhich she is unequal. 

Our NEiunnouRS ix Africa. 

The neighbour AAdiich most concerns us is 
Erauce. France has seized about thi’ee and 
a third million square miles iu Africa—con¬ 
siderably more than a quarter of the Avhole 
Coutineut. This abnormal greed is the more 
remarkable in that France is essentially not 
a colonising nation ; her sons are naturally 
stay-at-liomes, her daughters cannot keep 
tlieir OAvn population going ; and French, 
administration of iieAV lands and subject 
races can scarcely be described as successful. 
On the confession of French AAuIters the 
motive of France is national vanity and 
jealousy, fostered by the small l)ut siifficiently 
noisy Chauvinist faction AAdiich calls itself 
the Colonial Party. Some time ago M. Gastin 
Donnet Avrote in the Revue Bleue — 

“ I once asked a Government official AAdiy 
we held the Congo ? 

“ ‘ For pecuniary reasons,’ he replied ; ‘ for 
the purpose of soAving, planting, reaping, 
and selling ! ” 

“ ‘ Quite so ; but, unluckily, aa'c neither soav 
nor rea]), consequently Ave have nothing to 
sell.’ He acquiesced and I insisted. 




THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


550 

‘ Then pray explain to me why we keep 
the Congo ? ’ He thought a moment. 

“ ‘ Probably in order to spite Germany or 
Belgium.’ ” 

The rest seems to be done ^ to spite 
England. Nor do French ambitions seeui 
yet to be satiated, as the notorious elfort in 
’!)8 to seize the Bahr el Ghazl Province of 
the Egyptian Sudan testifies. 

Looking at the map, and regarding the 
French acquisition of the larger part of 
AVestern Africa north of the Equator, one 
naturally inquires what France Avaiits with 
the great Sahara Desert, Avhich is included 
in that acquisition. True, scientists are fond 
uf picturing a future time when the world’s 
population shall be much greater, while the 
world’s food - producing lands shall^ have 
shruidv in value, and of telling us that in that 
future time we shall grow our food in the in¬ 
hospitable soil of the Sahara, made hospitable 
by irrigation works. But it is no such remote 
speculation Avhicli has prompted France to 
make her indecent grab. Her reason really 
is that she wants to connect her Mediterranean 
and AVest Coast Colonies, and make a Trans- 
Saharaii Bailway, which, commencing in 
Algeria, shall run down either to Jjake Chad, 
Timbuctoo, or St. Louis on the Senegambia 
Coast, and drain the trade of North and 
Central Africa—the avowed purpose being 
to strike a blow at English commercial power. 
England need not dread this railway in the 
least, for it would be a most valuable outlet 
and inlet to Nigeria. At present the chances 
of a Trans-Saharan Kailway do not look 
])romising, though the scheme is still spas- 
jiiodically mooted in France. A two- 
thousand-mile railway across a^ waterless 
desert, infested with brigands, is like to 
])rove a costly and cumbrous weapon of 
offence against England, particularly if, as 
seems certain, England would get most 
advautage out of the trade it would bring. 

The Belgian Congo State represents a 
curious experiment in the Europeanisation of 
Africa. There was much of altruism in its 
origin and earliest development under the 
enthusiastic guidance of the Belgian King 
Leopold. It began life as the International 
African Association — a sort of chartered 
company independent of any European 
Government. Thence it naturally developed 
into an independent State, and when the 
I^erlin Conference of 1885 ratified its autho¬ 
rity the optimistic confidently hoped that it 
would prove an effective buffer against designs 
of individual aggrandisement upon the part 
of the Powers. The territories of the Congo 


Free State—over 1)00,000 square miles in 
area—were the prize lands in the heart^ of 
Central Africa, largely for the acquisition 
of which the Powers were seizing points of 
vantage on the neighbouring coasts. It was 
thought that all sorts of gra^’e complications 
and mischief would be averted ])y what was 
meant to be a neutralisation of the coveted 
interior, a neutralisation Avliich would throw 
open the country to the free trade of the 
whole Avorld, so giA'ing it the advantages of 
acquisition by a European Power, Avhile 
diA'iding amongst the Avorld the advantages 
to floAv from its exploitation. But financial 
difiiculties soon broke doAvn the free-trade 
basis of the State. King Leo[)okrs Avill, 
under Avhich the sovereign rights of the 
State are left to Belgium (who has given a 
right of pre-emption to Finnce), has destroyed 
the dream of internationalism. To say that 
the country is very sparsely populated by 
Avhite men hardly conveys a notion of the 
infinitesimal character of European settle¬ 
ment ; and, as a consequence, the agricultural 
operations for Avhich this vast territory is 
Avell suited have not yet begun, save in tiny 
patches round the stations, and the country’s 
store of minerals still remains intact. Nor 
have the relations bctAveeii the feAV Avhite men 
and the natives been altogether of that 
altruistic character Avhich tlie State’s founders 
intended. Yet, in spite of these disappoint¬ 
ments, the Congo State Avill doubtless have a 
big future, and Belgium a rich heritage in 
Africa. 

German Africa need not detain us. It is 
the result of Bismarck’s ambition to found a 
colonial empire, and began Avith the seizure 
of territory under the British sphere of 
influence to the north-Avest of Cape Colony. 
Its extension has been marked by the 
stirring up of bad feeling betAveen England 
and Germany ; but so far England has had 
little cause to envy Germany her possessions 
in Togoland, in Cameroons, in South-AA^est 
and in East Africa, any more than Germany 
has had cause to congratulate herself on the 
successful colonisation of tliose ^ regions. 
NeA^ertheless, there is good colonising blood 
in Germany, and Avhen she learns, as she 
seems noAV to be doing, not to treat the 
natives to a reign of Blood and Iron, she may 
yet find Avealth in her African Possessions. 

AVealth in Africa. 

Having consolidated our African Empire, 
Avliat are Ave going to do Avith it ? There is 
one right excellent thing Avhich Ave have 


THE FUTURE OF AFRICA. 


551 


already done with it—we have removed the 
curse of slavery and of blood ; we are intro¬ 
ducing freedom and order and Christianity. 
Ihit in an economic view what are we going 
to do with it ? Much wealth lies latent in 
onr African lands. But can it all be ex¬ 
ploited, in what directions, and to what 
extent ? At present these questions are not 
easy to answer. 

in Africa the climate has always to be 
reckoned with. The little colony of brave 
Scotchmen on the Blantyre Highlands in 
Nyassaland disproves the pessimistic theory 
that the central parts of the Continent are 
uninhabitable by white men, but it would be 
foolish to maintain that the eastern and 
western coasts, and the Equatorial interior. 


we must look in connection with the develop¬ 
ment of Africa. There is plenty of native 
labour available. The Negro and the Bantu, 
it is true, have conceptions of labour which 
would not long keep an Englishman out of 
the workhouse ; but much may be accom¬ 
plished by gradual training, and the supply 
is plentiful and cheap. 

The soil is fertile. It is not all swamp 
and desert in Africa, and even deserts have 
their oases, and a lot can be done with a 
drained swamp. The arid Sahara wiU yield 
water for the digging, and when water is 
obtained the hundreds and thousands of date- 
palms planted on the Algerian border prove 
that cultivation may follow. The same 
dreaded Sahara is fringed with grass-land on 



{Xaville Edwards, Little]Lampion. 


Fholo by] 


DELAGOA BAY 


are salubrious. Pending further knowledge, 
we can only say with certainty that some 
])ortions—South Africa, of course, and the 
llhodcsian lands up to the tenth parallel- 
are lit for colonisation : invalids are ordered 
to the Cape. Similarly, it is common kno^y- 
ledge that Englishmen can live in health in 
Egypt, even those who cannot stand the 
winter at home. And we shall no doubt 
find, by experiment, that many parts of 
Tropical Africa are possible for the English 
colonist. There are two sorts of colonisa¬ 
tion. There is the colonisation of the man 
who goes to till fields with his own hands, 
and there is the colonisation of him who 
goes to superintend native labour. It is 
more to this latter kind of colonisation that 


its soutliern borders, whereon no doubt many 
thousands of cattle and sheep will browse iii 
time to come. Concerning the great area oi 
Central Africa, we have Mr. Scott Keltic’s 
authority for the statement that there can be 
no doubt of the fertility of the soil over at 
least one half of the area. There you have 
great forests, from which may be obtained 
illimitable quantities of rubber, cocoanut 
and palm oils, fibres, gums, and other articles 
of high commercial value. It is impossible 
to set bounds to the amount of tropical and 
subtropical fruits which might be cultivated. 
We know that rice, and maize, and indigo, 
and cotton, and tobacco, and coffee, and 
sugar can be raised ; experiment has proved 
this, and conjecture fails to set bounds ou 















552 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


the quantities which might he raised. The 
world-market might be inundated with such 
products from Africa. And it will certainly 
he well that England should be able to pro¬ 
duce these things within the bounds of her 
own Empire, instead of being dependent 
upon foreigners. Witli the groAvth of the 
world’s population outside Africa, and with 
the growth of the native population in Africa 
—which is certain under the humane con¬ 
ditions now beginning to prevail—and with 
the growth in their wants, the market for all 
these products is bound largely to increase. 
There is every reason, moreover, to believe 
that both the precious and the base rnehils 
will be found in large quantities in Central 
as in Soutliern Africa. 

When conjecturing Africa’s industrial 
future it is obviously futile to attempt to 
circumscribe oneself by figures ; but even 
these may be used to some extent for pur¬ 
poses of comparison. Tlius, Africa may not 
unfairly be compared witli India. Now, 
India has an area of 1,500,000 square miles, 
and its exports reach an annual value of 
some £90,000,000. (And India’s industrial 
development is as yet a long way off com¬ 
pletion.) Africa has an area of 11,500,000 
square miles, and its annual exports only 
reach a value of about £00,000,000 ; and of 
these about £40,000,000 come from the 
Mediterranean States and Egypt, at one end 
of the Continent, and South Africa at the 
other. Thus the whole of the vast fertile 
interior only exports some £20,000,000 worth 
of goods a year. Even, then, if Africa can 
only be developed to a degree corresponding 
with India’s present development, the exports 
should be worth about £700,000,000 a year. 
Or let us rather make the comparison from 
Eritish Africa only. AYithin the Eed Cross 
lie Africa’s most fertile lands and richest 
mines. Those lands, including Egypt and 
the Sudan, but without the other additions 
I have been speaking of, contain over 
8,250,000 square miles. On the Indian com¬ 
parison, therefore, they should be worth 
in exports over £185,000,000 a year. 


But all this future development awaits the 
development of transport. The monotonous 
regularity of the African coastline, with its 
lack of inlets to the interior, is an unfor¬ 
tunate geographical feature, and in spite of 
the Nile, and the Congo, and the Niger, and 
the Zambesi, and the other great rivers, 
there is a great dearth of navigable inland 
waterways. Probably by canalisation many 
of the rapids, particularly those on the Nile, 
will be overcome in time, and navigation 
made practicable where at present it is im¬ 
possible, or nearly so. When this is done 
several great highways into the heart of the 
Continent will be opened ; but even tlien 
Africa in the main will not be well off for 
inland waterways. Save in the compara¬ 
tively well-settled fringe of the Continent, 
there are no roads to speak of. Narrow 
paths wind from village to village, caravan 
routes traverse the Sahara and the Sudan 
here and there. But much more is wanted 
if commerce worth the name is to be 
developed. Camels are used in Egypt, 
donkeys in Somaliland, but at present, over 
the greater part of Africa, the only beast of 
burden is the native himself. That, of 
course, will have to be altered, and, Avith 
the construction of roads, Avheeled vehicles 
drawn by horses and cattle Avill become 
possible, and there is a suggestion that 
elephants, as in India, should be utilised. 
But the great means of opening up the 
country Avill be by railways ; and it is 
encouraging to recognise the signs of a 
railway-building era having set in. AVhen 
the great Cape to Cairo scheme is achieved, 
Avhen the Uganda and Congo Eaihvays luive 
penetrated the Continent, and Avhen (if 
ever) the French Trans-Saharan Eaihvay is 
completed, when further progress in railway 
building has been made in our West African 
Possessions, and Avhen the railways already 
constructed or projected have thrown out 
their feeders hither and thither, then indeed 
Avill African development commence in 
earnest, and the Dark Continent will be fully 
lightened. 










M r. CHARLES CRUDESON liad 
done remarkahly well in the in¬ 
dustrial world ; step by step he 
had raised himself to a considerable position 
in the City. Advancement came slowly, but 
during the last three years certain Patagonian 
ventures brought him to a level of supreme 
opulence, and he felt that “ The Labur¬ 
nums,” at Wandsworth, Avas in no Avay 
Avorthy of a man of his means. 

The daily papers hinted that Crndeson 
was the coming plutocrat; he received 
invitations to dinner from people Avlioin he 
had never even heard of, people AAu’th titles, 
leaders of society, and such-like. But 
Crndeson vicAA^ed these invitations Avith cold 
indifference and consigned them daily to the 
Avaste-paper basket; neither Avould Crndeson 
be intervicAved, notAvithstanding an admira¬ 
tion for tlie uses of advertisement. In many 
Avays he had a good sound judgment of the 
vanities of this Avorld and their intrinsic 
A^alues. 

It is true that he purchased a coat-of- 
arms and derived an ancestry from Horinan 
forefathers, dating from a certain Baron 
Crii de Sang, aaIio landed, naturally enough, 
Avith William the Conqueror. 

It is true that they found Crndeson a 
motto, and AA^hat not, the motto being 
“ Labor Omnia Yincit ” ; but these trifles 
Avere his pardonable AATaknesses, and he 
could AA^ell afford them. 

Having attained an ancestry and armorial 
bearings, Crndeson longed for a country 
place, so as to figure in ‘‘ Burke’s Landed 


Gentry,” Avith the possibility of arriving at a 
place in the British peerage and rcassumiiig 
the glories of his Norman ancestor. 

For a lengthy period he Aveighed the 
various attractions of “moated granges,” 
“ feudal castles,” “ Elizabethan manors,” and 
other enticing properties that came into the 
market from time to time. The house 
agents surfeited Crndeson Avith prospectuses 
of varying brilliancy—he Avas greatly taken 
Avith an old Scotch castle containing a secret 
only revealed to the OAvner, and ghosts of 
different periods. IIoAveA^er, the clraAvback 
to this Scotch castle Avas serious ; it had no 
deer-park and needed extensive repairs. 

Crndeson required his money’s AA^orth in 
every respect, and intended his purchase 
should be a good, sound iiiAXstment—some¬ 
thing equipped Avibh a real, solid historical 
Arabic—full of armour, ancestral portraits, 
deer grazing in a spacious park, peacocks on 
the terrace, and an old English garden. 

After Avaitiug for nearly a year Crndeson 
heard of sometliing that he thought Avould 
suit. And this AA’as a castle in the "Midlands, 
the property of young Lord Malevere, Avho, 
OAving to a love for the turf, agricultural de¬ 
pression, and doAA^agers’ jointures, AA^as obliged 
to part Avith his property in AYarAvicksliire. 

The agents gave a gloAving account of 
Malevere Castle, and Mr. Charles Crndeson 
determined to go doAvu and see the place for 
himself. He found a fine old feudal castle, 
crammed Avith family portraits, trophies of 
armour, and relics of all sorts ; the castle 
Avas entirely surrounded by a broad moat on 









554 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


wliicli Avater-lilies grew and swans swam 
I'ouiicl and round, peacocks were not lacking 
in the old-fasliioncd garden, and far beyond 
lay an immense deer-park, studded with 
magnilicent oaks and beeches, occupied by 
heixls of red and fallow deer. 

“That’s the ticket,” said Mr. Crudeson, 
as he gazed down on the property from the 
battlements ; “ this is a slap-up Middle Age 
concern right through.” 

The old housekeeper, with a bunch of keys 
in her hand, looked wonderingly at the 
gentleman as he stood with his thumbs stuck 
in his waistcoat pockets. 

Crudeson was of the florid type and affected 
the loud brown check suit and bowler to 
match, finished off Avith Avhitc spats and 
patent-leather boots. 

“ Any ghosts about ? ” he queried. 

“Lor’,"sir,” replied the old lady, “why, 
tlie Castle swarins Avith ’em ; all night long 
they clank chains, and in the AA^estern 
corridor haAvful sounds is ’card. A lady 
in Avhite is murdered by a man in a black 
mask every night on the stroke of twelve 
in the dungeon below the moat.” 

“ That sounds a bit of all right,” 
answered Crudeson; “but I intend to 
sample this feudal residence before the 
missus and kids come doAvn.” 

“Then there’s Sir Marmadook,” the 
old lady Avent on. 

“ AVhat about him ? ” 

“ Sir Marmadook Maleverc, ’im as Avalks 
in the great ’all flourishing a battle-haxe 
of an cA'Cning.” 

The old "lady Avould have Avillingly 
spent hours in pouring forth biographies 
of all the ghosts seen and unseen in the 
Castle—it Avas her favourite topic Avith 
strangers ; she loved to make their flesh 
creep, especially Avhen they appeared 
matter-of-fact subjects like Crudeson. He 
listened for some time Avith apparent 
interest to Mrs. Bird’s stories, but finally 
tore himself aAA'ay to catch an evening 
train to town, leaving Avord that he in¬ 
tended to come down to Malevere Castle 
at the end of the Aveek and stay a couple 
of nights quite alone in the place, so as to 
test the. quality of the ghosts. 

“ ‘ Crudeson, of MaleA-ere Castle,’ Avill 
sound AA^ell in the ‘Landed Gentry,’” he 
thought as he travelled up to town. 

“ We’ll have shooting parties, garden 
parties, race parties, hunt breakfasts. We’ll 
do it fat and make the neighbourhood 
hum. The missus Avill look splendid 
receiving her guests iii the great hall, 


dressed in violet velvet.” By the time 
Crudeson reached Euston he fancied himself 
lieutenant of the county, Avith a title in 
prospect. 

After another interview Avith the agents, 
Malevere Castle passed into the hands of 
Mr. Charles Crudeson, and on the Saturday 
afternoon following his visit of inspection 
he arrived alone at the Castle. His Avife 
implored him to take his A^alet, but Crudeson 
insisted on going alone. “A valet AVOuld 
put the ghosts off,” he said Avith decision. 
“ I shan’t have any of the household till you 
come Avith the kids. I Avant to see Avhat these 
antediluvian ghosts do Avith themselves.” 

Crudeson felt a thrill of pleasure as he 
droA^e in a high dog-cart through the park 
his deer-park—and arrived at the draw¬ 
bridge. It Avas late autumn, and already 
lights shone from tAVO or three Avindows in 
the Castle- 



“ Young Lord ^lalevere.” 









CRUDESOX'S CASTLE, 


555 


Among the modci’ii improvements at 
Malevere were electric bells, and on touching 
one at the entrance of the drawbridge the 
heavy structure was lowered by machinery 
from the Castle. Crossing the drawbridge 
Crudeson found ]\Irs. Bird waiting to recei\’e 
him ill the passage leading to the great centre 
hall. 

8he curtsied slightly as he entered. Mrs. 
Bird had spent a deal of time in her youth 
acquiring the various forms of curtsy. She 
and a girl composed the present establisliment 
of j\[alevere ; the girl did as much as she 
could of the rough work—scrubbing the 
floors and devouring ]ienny works of fiction 
■—and Mrs. Bird dusted where she could reach 
the dust Avithout too great an expenditure 
of vital force. 

The man who drove Crudeson from the 
station carried the small portmanteau over 
the drawbridge, and Mrs. Bird, candle in 
hand, proceeded in a stately manner to light 
the new owner of Malevere to his room. 

‘‘ You ’ave the hoak parlour, sir, in the 
eastern tower ; ’is Lordship always slept in 
that room, as being ’andy for the ’all. Me 
and Susan lighted a good fire to make it cosy 
like against yonr coming—when do you 
please to dine, sir ? ” 

“ Oh, in about an hour’s time,” answered 
Crudeson. 

“ There is soup, fish, and a nice bit o’ 
beef,” said Mrs. Bird, “ and could you fancy 
a AVelsh rabbit ? ” 

‘‘ Perhaps; I’ll tell you later on about 
the rabbit.” 

Curtsying, Mrs. Bird withdrew, and Crude¬ 
son commenced to unpack his portmanteau 
and arrayed himself in a gorgeous smoking 
suit of dark green silk Avith light blue spots 
thereon. The Avash and brush-up revived 
him, and he issued forth from the oak 
parlour Avhistling that ancient air, “ A Fine 
Old English Gentleman,” and passing doAvn 
the corridor found his AA^ay to the great hall. 

The magnificence of this apartment rather 
awed Crudeson, especially at night. Tavo 
lamps shed a certain amount of light, 
and a huge fire blazed upon the hearth. 
Generations of Maleveres lined the Avails ; 
portraits attributed to Holbein, Van Dyck, 
Lely, and Kneller looked doAvn Avith their 
Avell-bred stare at Crudeson. There Averc 
ladies of the family, painted at a later date by 
Keynolds and Gainsborough, Avith tapering 
fingers, lounging in pastoral landscapes. 
Between tlie pictures hung pieces of armour 
—helmets, SAvords and cross-boAvs. At in¬ 
tervals complete suits of armour stood round 


tlie hall—some Avere curiously Avrought and 
richly damascened, Avith quaint headpieces ; 
the eyeholes in the visors appeared to contain 
real eyes. 

All these relics of a past age—monuments of 
inedimval grandeur—disconcerted Crudeson, 
and he noticed that at one end of the hall 
they had laid the table for dinner. He 
didn’t quite like the idea of dining alone in 
this great hall, Avith the suits of armour 
standing round and glaring at every morsel 
he put "in his mouth. The fitful firelight 
added to the Aveird and ghostly effect of the 
many portraits—he imagined that some of 
them Avere Avinking at him. 

AYhen Mrs. Bird came in to ask if he Avas 
ready for dinner, he said, “ There’s not 
enough light in this hall. Directly Ave are 
fixed up i shall have electric light all over 
the place.” 

“ I’ll put some candles on the table Avhen 
you dine, sir ; ’is Lordship never liked a lot 
o’ light,” and Mrs. Bird made a slight 
curtsy. 

“I can’t help Avhat his Lordship liked,” 
answered Crudeson. “ Malevere’s mine now, 
and I’A^e paid a pretty penny for it, and I’ll 
run the shoAV as I like—the missus Avould 
iieAm’ stand tliis hall to dine in.” 

“Oh, by no means, sir,” AA^as the reply. 
“I took the liberty to lay the dinner here 
to-niglit because the Avalnut dining-room is 
up on end.” 

“ It doesn’t matter for to-night, but I’m 
blessed if I’m not at sea in this mausoleum. 
Y'ou can get the dinner ready, and I can 
fancy the Welsli rabbit.” 

“ I take the liberty to tell you, sir, that 
the suit of harmour there by the door is kSir 
Marmadook’s—’im Avhat Avalks about. The 
battle-1 1 axe is grasped in ’is left ’and.” 

“ All riglit, Mrs. Bird ; you go and see 
about the dinner, and I’ll have a look at the 
old tin case.” 

He crossed over and began to examine the 
suit of armour minutely. It AA'as a fine suit 
of burnished steel, complete in every detail, 
and the left-hand gauntlet rested lightly on 
an enormous battle-axe. The visor Avas 
closed. It had evidently been made for a 
large and poAverful man, and, from one or 
two dents in the helmet, appeared to have 
seen service in the Avars. 

“ It’s a good old Middle Age complete suit 
of dittoes,” muttered Crudeson, after he had 
inspected the armour. “ I Avoiider if old 
Marmie paid for his plates of steel on the 
cash system. This must liaA-e cost him a bit; 
it’s one of the best in the show.” 


556 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Crnclcson looked on 
liis castle as a glorified 
Madame Tussaud’s. 

He glanced carefully 
round the oak-panelled 
walls to see if there 
were any spare spaces ; 
at last his eye rested 
on a vacant spot 
capable of holding two 
full - length portraits. 

That he took as a 
very strong hint, and 
he formed a resolve to 
have ‘The missus” and 
himself painted full- 
length and Imng np 
with the Maleveres. 

“ That’ll make ’em sit 
np,” he ejaculated, 
making a pretence to 
spar at Sir Marma- 
dnke’s suit of armour. 

He liked the idea of 
being in such noble 
bygone company. 

“ The missus” would 
be painted in her 
favourite dress of 
violet velvet, wearing 
untold diamonds, and 
he, Charles Crndeson, 
in a sober frock-coat, 
grasping a roll of 
paper, and the coat- 
of-arms painted as 
large as possible in the 
top left-hand corner. 

Or, instead of two full- 
length portraits he might have an immense 
family group, with “ tlie^ kids,” Charles I. 
fashion. All through dinner he pondered 
over it, so much depended on the artist’s 



“The suit of armour walked across to wliere 
Crudesou sat,” 


charges. Although a millionaire, Crndeson 
thought twice before he threw away good 
money on “having his picture took.” 

He enjoyed his dinner, on the whole—he 
felt pleased to get away from the gorgeous 
villa at Wandsworth, with the solemn, 
powdered flunkeys; he quite forgot that 
sncli trifles as family portraits and suits of 
armour looked down disdainfully on the 
solitary occupant of the barons’ hall. Mrs. 
Bird informed him that it was the barons’ 
hall, and this pleased Crndeson immensely ; 
he complimented her on the Welsh rarebit, 
and a feeling of great contentment came over 
him. After dinner, he drew out his cigar- 
case, and pulled one of the old-fashioned. 


high-back chairs in front of the lire, while 
Mrs. Bird cleared the dinner-table. 8hc 
then set a small table by his side Avith 
Avhisky and soda-Avater thereon, and retired, 
after taking the liberty to Avish him a very 
good night in his ncAAdy acquired castle. 

He thought of the future as he sat con¬ 
tentedly puffing his cigar, taking a sip at 
the Avhisky-and-AA\ater from time to time. 
A delicious feeling of droAvsiness AA-as the 
result and caused a pleasant reAxrie. The 
fire burned brightly and Crndeson felt ATiy 
comfortable. He sat like this for a long 
time ; the size of the hall aAA'ed him no 
longer. The portraits seemed like old friends, 
and he glanced benignly in the directioii of 
Sir Marmaduke Malevere’s coat of armour. 
Crndeson AA'as really quite cosy. As he gazed 
at Sir Marmaduke he fancied he saAv the 
entire suit move slightly and step doAvn from 













































































































CRni)ESON\S CASTLE. 


557 


the wooden pedestal, reflecting back the 
glow of the lire. 

He was not mistaken ; the figure moved 
and the armour clanked slightly. Then lie 
saw the left hand raise the enormous battle- 
axe and swing it three times round with 
lightning speed. The suit of armour 
walked across to where Crudeson sat, and 
looked down on him. Crudeson felt far too 
comfortable to move. 

“ Take a chair,” he said to Sir Marmadukc, 
for lie felt sure that the worthy baronet was 
inside the armour. “ There’s another glass 
here,” he continned. “ I’ll mix you a good 
stiff whisky, my boy, and we’ll make a night 
of it. Sit down, I say, and make yourself 
at home.” 

A slight shudder ran through the armoured 
figure, and the right-hand gauntlet raised 
the visor. A hollow voice came from the 
aperture, and two eyes, bright as coals, glared 
at Crudeson. 

“Stranger knight, I drink no whisky— 
ratlier a horn of malvoisie or a stoup of 
malmsey.” 

“ Sorry,” replied Crudeson ; “ never heard 
of ’em. Wliat are they ? Yankee driidvS, I 
expect. I know gin-slings, mint-juleps, and 
corpse-revivers and cocktails.” 

“ Bandy no words with me. Sir Knight,” 
ansAvered Sir Marmadukc; “ mayhap you 
know of a sack posset. I Avot not of the 
drinks you mention.” 

“ You try Avhisky,” answered Crudeson, 
“ and you’ll feel all right.” So saying he 
placed another high-back chair on the 
opposite side of the fire, motioned to Sir 
Marmadnke to take a seat, mixed him a 
stiff Avhisky-and-AA'-ater and pressed it on him. 

The armour-clad figure took a sip and 
remarked, “Marry, but this is a strange 
liquid.” 

“ It’s been in the cask a good time,” 
replied Crudeson. “ I’d drop that axe you’ve 
got in your left hand ; it must be rather 
heavy to carry about all day.” 

Sir Marmadukc let it drop Avith a loud 
crash on the floor. 

The curiously assorted couple sat one eacli 
side of the fireplace. “ You’d l)etter take 
that saucepan off your head,” said (h’udeson ; 
“ it must be stifling Avork sitting near the 
fire.” 

The lielmet shook sloAvly from side to 
side. “ Gramercy,” came the answer, “ but 
the heat pleaseth me. jMayhap thou Avilt 
inform me of thy name and achievements, 
gentle sir.” 

“ My name is Charles Crudeson, and per¬ 


haps 3mu met some ancestors of mine—their 
name A\’as Cru de Sang ; the first came over 
Avith the Conqueror.” 

“A certain Alaric de Cru de Sang Avas 
knoAvn to me in the Avars of York and 
Lancaster, Avhen I fought side by side Avith 
the saintly Henry, Avhom Heaven preserve ! 
but thou art strangely unlike him,” said Sir 
Marmadukc. “ What of thy deeds of valour 
and passages of arms ; Avith thy great bulk 
thou shouldst be foremost in the tourney 
and no craven in the skirmish, no carpet 
kniglit, forsooth. I like not thy apparel of 
green colour, Avith evil azure spots.” 

“ Look here, hold on,” said Crudeson. “ I 
gave ten pounds for this smoking suit, subject 
to cash discount; and as for my deeds of 
valour, I’ve practically cornered the 
Patagonian market, and have bought up 
this old rat-run. My name’s a good one in 
the City and I can Avrite as fat a cheque 
as most people.” 

“ By Saint Mary ! ” ansAvered Sir Marma- 
duke, “ it seemetli to me that thou art one 
of those Avlio traffic in bales and merchandise, 
AAdio practise usance and consort Avith money¬ 
lenders and JeAvs. What make yon here in 
the hall of the Maleveres ? I like not the 
race of merchants. AYe extracted their 
teeth in the days of sainted Henry, Avhen Ave 
required their ill-gotten AA^ealth.” 

“ Oh, cheese it,” said Crudeson. “ AYhy, I 
could cut a far finer figure at Court nowa¬ 
days than you. I pan out considerably 
better; I advise you to get back to your 
pedestal and stay there if you can’t have a 
quiet talk Avithout dragging in feudal rot.” 

Sir Marmaduke bent stiffly across to Avherc 
his battle-axe lay on the floor. “ I cannot 
brook thy taunts, most mercenary of knaA^es,” 
he gurgled. “ Tell me Avhat thou Avouldst do 
Avith this my stronghold before I engage in 
further parley Avith thee.” 

“ AYell, I intend to polish the place up a 
bit, stick in electric light, and Ave’ll clean 
your armour up and make it look like neAV ; 
there’s a splendid soap for old saucepans.” 

Sir Marmaduke nodded grimly. 

“ I shall fix up telephones and have some 
neAV furniture in ; these chairs Avant repair¬ 
ing. I may cart some of the pictures and 
armour to my villa, ‘ The Laburnums,’ on 
AYandsAvorth Common ; you’d look nice in 
the front hall; they are rather crowded up 
here.” 

A shudder ran through the figure in 
armour. 

“You appear to think you have a claim 
on this place, referring to it as your strong- 


558 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



‘‘ riic wars of York and LanoaFtor.” 


I shall petition for the double title, Lord 
Crudeson of Malevere.” 

Sir Mar mad like gave a sudden gasp, seized 
his battle-axe, and strode towards Crudeson. 

‘‘Now you are getting excited,’’said the 
latter. “ That whisky ‘^lias got into your 
head, you silly old armoured biped.” 

Eaisiug his battle-axe Sir Marmaduke 
cried, “ St. George for Merrie England and 
‘ a Malevere ! ’ ” at the same time aiming a 
terrific blow" at Crudeson ; then the latter 
felt himself falling through space. 

“ It couldn’t have been a dream,” said 
Crudeson to himself, when quite awake. 
Eubbing his eyes he looked across to the 
pedestal, and there stood Sir Marmaduke’s 
suit of armour, with the gauntlet resting on 
the axe, to all appearance the same as when 
he first saw it. 

“ Anyhow, it‘s time for me to turn in, and 
when we come and live here I’ll have that 
suit of armour transferred to Wandsworth.” 


hold. I paid a good price to Lord ]\Talevere, 
and if yon don’t take care I shall call it 
Crudeson Castle, or turn it into an hotel and 
let out the park in small building lots. I 
can do just what I please, so there ! ” said 
Crudeson half defiantly. 

“ I perceive, varlet, that the age of chivalry 
is past, and true worth and knightly deeds 
are held to be of small account.” 

“ That’s rot,” answered Crudeson. “ If 
you beha^'ed yourself I could manage to get 
you the post of director on some City 
company.” 

“ I wot not of City companies, thou saucy 
knave ! ” 

“Io)k here,” said Crudeson with some 
Avarmtli, “ don’t you go on calling me those 
j\Iiddle Age names. Some day, for all you 
know, I may be created Lord Crudeson, and 




{Copyright, 1900 , hy Philip Treherne, in the United States of America.) 







“the BALTIC”; 

ITS HISTORY ANH WORK. 
Willta:\[ C. Mackenzie. 


PhotO!jraiilis hy C. FiiVmyton. 


I N liis cliarniing essay on ‘‘ The Sontli 
Sea House,” Charles Lamb describes 
it as “a melancholy-looking, handsome 
brick-and-stone edifice . . . where Thread- 
needle Street abnts upon Lishopsgate,” and 
adds, “ This was once a house of trade—a 


of a passage in Thackeray’s “ Pendennis.’* 
“ AV^hy Pcill 31 all Gazrtle ? ” asked AVagg. 
“ Because the editor was born at Hnblin, the 
sub-editor at Cork ; because the proprietor 
lives in Paternoster Row, and the paper 
is published in Catherine Street, Strand.” 



CKXTR.M. VIEW OF KXCTT.VXGE, LOOKING EASTWARDS. 


centre of busy interests.” Tf the gentle Elia 
could revisit to-day the famous building, 
he would find that it has once more 
become “ a house of trade—a centre of busy 
interests,” with its accompanying “ throng 
of merchants ” and its “quick pulse of gain.” 
For the principal portion of South Sea 
House is now occupied by the great grain 
and shipping Exchange known as “ The 
Baltic.” 

The name of the Exchange reminds one 


Similarly it may be said that “ The Baltic ” 
is so named because the tniding thei*e is 
largely with the Black Sea ; because grain 
and not timber is the chief article of com¬ 
merce ; and because the majority of the 
members are Englishmen. But there is' a 
reason for the origin of all names, and 
“ The Baltic ” is no exception to the rule. 

Years ago, a well known coflPee-house 
stood in the neighbourhood of South Sea 
House. It was the headquarters of a 





5G0 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



TIIK MHGArilONE. 

iininbor of Eussian mcrcliants engaged in 
the Baltic trade, and it tlms came to 
he known as “The Baltic” cofPec-lionse. 
(Irceks trading in grain subsequently began 
to frequent tlie house, and ultimately grain 
came to be the chief topic of conversation 
there. In course of time the commercial 
transactions which daily took place became 
of sufficient importance to warrant the 
establishment of an Exchange for the 
exclusive use of the traders. South Sea 
House, then the desolate place described 
by Lamb, was selected for the purpose, 
and was opened as an Exchange in 1857. 
And so the coffee-house was forsaken by its 
luibihies, who, howe\'er, carried its name 
with them to their new meeting-place. That 
is the genesis both of the Exchange and of its 
name. At first, “ The Baltic ” business was 
conducted on the free and easy lines of its 
predecessor, but by and by, tlie incompati¬ 
bility of coffee and active trading becoming 
recognised, the beverage was relegated to 
tlie refreshment-room, to which eatables 
and drinkables are now confined. 

During the forty years wliiclL have elapsed 
since the acquisition of South Sea House, 
the value of the property has increased 
enormously, and the volume of business con¬ 
ducted in “ The Baltic ” has correspondingly 
expanded. The building is owned by the 
Baltic Company, who receive a rental of 


£8,000 a year for the premises used 
l)y the Exchange, wliile the rest of tlie 
building consists of offices which are pro¬ 
portionately remunerative. The £100 shares 
of the Baltic Company are now worth fully 
£800 apiece. 

Unlike the Corn Exchange, “ The Baltic ” 
is not open to the public. Candidates for 
membership must be proposed and seconded 
by two members. The entrance fee is £21 
for principals and £10 105. for clerks, and the 
annual subscriptions are £10 lO.s*. and £7 7s. 
respectively. The fullest publicity is given 
in the room to applications for membership 
prior to the names coming before the Com¬ 
mittee for election, the object being to admit 
no person whose commercial antecedents will 
not bear investigation. The Committee are 
annually elected on a rotatory system, by the 
members from amongst themselves, and are 
invested with the necessary authority for 
managing the affairs of the Exchange. They 
have poAver not only to elect, but to suspend, 
members, and, in extreme cases, to relieve 
them of their membership. They receive, 
consider, and deal with complaints of all 
kinds ; and the disbursing and investing 
of the revenue are in their hands. 

That the Committee are careful to make 
provision for the comfort and convenience of 
their fellow members there is ample evidence 
to show. The leading daily papers, morning 
and evening, are provided to while away the 
dull periods Avhich occur more frequently 
than members Avish. Illustrated, comic, and 
society journals are also to be seen in the 
room, and are usually in much request. 
Luxuriously cushioned seats further enhance 
the club-like appearance of the Exchange, 
and Avriting-tables, Avitli the usual acces¬ 
sories, are plentifully provided. The dressing- 
room arrangements leaA^e little, if anything, 
to be desired. And, not the least im¬ 
portant of the comforts, there is at the 
east end of the Exchange a luncheon-room 
Avith a bar, Avhere the inner man can be 
refreshed at a moderate cost. For the 
business convenience of members there are 
a telegraph office, nine felt-lined telephone 
cells, and an Exchange Company’s tape- 
machine, recording Stock Exchange quota¬ 
tions. Telegrams from A-arious grain 
centres are provided for reference, not to 
mention railAA^ay time - tables, directories, 
and various voiumes relating to shipping. 
But these arrangements, excellent though 
they are, can only serve to mitigate the 
patent fact that the membership has out- 
groAvn the accommodation, and a decision 




















BALTICr 


501 




liiis just 1)ecii 
taken wliieli 
will result in 
a complete 
c li a n g e of 
hal)itat in the 
i mmeet iate 
future. 

The mem¬ 
bership at 
present ap¬ 
proaches one 
thonsancl five 
luindred, and 
keeps increas- 
iug. At noon 
and at 4.30 
p.m., which 
are the busi¬ 
est parts of 
the day, tlie 
atmosphere 
of tlie room 
011 a hot 
summer day 
cannot be 

described as exhilarating. However, a large 
electric fan from the low glass roof, and 
several smaller ones fixed on the walls, create 
a enrrent of air which renders the defective 
ventilation less intolerable. 

The entrance to the room is guarded from 
intruders by an official in blue and gold, 
whose further duty it is to call out the 


KXTEKIOK VIEW : TllliEADNEEDLE STIiEET END. 


EXTEUIOK : IIISIIOPSGATE STIiEET END. 


names of members who are Avanted outside. 
The call is repeated by anotlier official inside 
the room, the intonation of the voice through 
a megaphone serving to make the name 

more distinctly heard above the din. At 

the opposite end of the room a third official 
calls members Avho are sought by their 
fellow - occupants of the Exchange. The 

stalf of officials is 
under the direction 
of the secretary, 
Avhose office is to 
be found near the 
main entrance to 
the Exchange. 

Members are per¬ 
mitted to introduce 
visitors Avho reside 
at a distance of not 
less than forty miles 
from London. The 
name of a visitor 
and his residence 
must be registered 
in a book kept for 
the purpose, and a 
card of admission, 
which forms a ])ass 
for entering the Ex¬ 
change, must be 
filled up by the in¬ 
troducing member 
and countersigned 
2 














THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 





“fOKKIGN TFLFCiKAMS” COKNKU, LOOKING SOUTH-EAST. 


by a ineiiiber of Committee. A glance at 
the register reveals the fact tliat visitors hail 
from all parts of the world. The book is as 
interesting, from a geographical point of 
view, as the register of a large London hotel 
during the Season. 

A stranger on entering the room might 
Avell be pardoned for expressing curiosity as 
to tlie nature of the business which is being 
ti’ausacted. At the Corn Exchange, if he 
has been there, he will have seen tangible 
proofs of buying and selling in the numerous 
samples of grain laid out for inspection, just 
as a draper’s wares are exhibited in his 
window. Here, liowever, there are no 
samples or other visible embodiments of 
trade. He sees a throng of men of diversi¬ 
fied types, all, or nearly all, clad in sober 
black, and wearing silk hats of more or 
less irreproachable gloss. Of recent years, 
costumes during the summer months have 
had a tendency to be light and airy, and 
the straw hat has made serious inroads on 
the once unquestioned supremacy of the 
“ topper.” Most of the inmates of the 
room are chatting amicably together, some 
arc reading newspapers, and a few are writing 
at the side tables. The hum of many 
voices awakens reminiscences of a bee-hive, 
but the proverbially busy bee does not always 
appear to be in evidence. When business is 
brisk, however, an air of alertness is every¬ 
where apparent, and during a boom period, 
like that which occurred in May and June 


of 1808 , the excite¬ 
ment winch prevails 
is apt to become con¬ 
tagious. Needless to 
say, there is often a 
good deal more in 
the pleasant chat than 
meets the eye; for 
the gentlemen with 
the bland smiles and 
fluent tongues are 
busy trying to get the 
better of one anotlier, 
as the cynic would 
say. Merchandise 
valued at thousands 
of pounds daily 
clianges hands as the 
result of these con¬ 
versations. And here 
one comes in contact 
with a principle Avhich 
underlies the business 
which is carried on 
at this and similar 
Exchanges. That a member’s Avord must 
be his bond is a sine qua non of the suc¬ 
cessful Avorking of any institution of the 
kind. A seller makes a verbal offer, or a 
buyer makes a verbal bid; if either is 
accepted, also verbally, the transaction is 
complete, and the contract notes Avhich are 
subsequently made out merely record the 
bargain. The seller or the buyer may regret 
the transaction as soon as concluded, but no 
one AAdio A^alued either his reputation or his 
membership of the Exchange Avould for a 
moment make an attempt at repudiation. 
Misunderstandings are liable to occur 
occasionally, but these are usually easy to 
adjust. Disputes, hoAvever, are of frequent 
occurrence in connection Avith matters Avhich 
do not reflect in any Avay on the integrity 
of buyer or seller. A sensible provision 
exists for the settlement of such disputes. 
Instead of putting in motion the costly and 
cumbrous machinery of the hiAV, the question 
at issue is submitted to tAVO arbitrators, one 
representing each side. If they fail to agree 
they appoint an umpire, AA’hose decision is 
final. Much friction and much expense are 
by this means avoided. 

By a tacit understanding, based on custom, 
the various trades represented on the Baltic 
are grouped, each in its particular part of 
the room. This is a mutually convenient 
arrangement AAdiich Avorks Avell in practice. 
The shipping fraternity cluster near the 
main entrance to the room. Here oAvners, 











‘‘THE BALTICS 




chcirtcriii<>f agents, and brokers compare 
notes. Coal freights outwards, and grain 
freights liomewards, form the chief topics of 
conversation and the subjects of actual 
business. It is thus easy to see the mutual 
convenience of an Exchange of this kind. 
A, desiring a certain freight for his steamer, 
meets B, who requires a steamer of the size 
and position of A’s, for the very business 
which A wants. Eesult—an agreement 
l)etween them for hiring or chartering the 
steamer, assuming the two can come to 
terms. AVere it not for the meeting-place 
afforded by the Exchange, A and B would 
have difficulty in ascertaining one another’s 
requirements, and thus mutually profitable 
business might be lost. The technicalities 
of chartering are not acquired in a day ; 
special knowledge and experience are both 
requisite. The written contract, or charter- 
party, as it is called, which is drawn up and 
signed after the bargain has been verbally 
struck, is a puzzling document to one who is 
not conversant with shipping matters. Such 
expressions as “ lay days,” ‘‘cancelling dates,” 
“ dead Aveight,” and “ dead freight ” are 
samples of the jargon Avhich plentifully 
bespriiddes the conversation of the shipping 


members of “ The Baltic.” Besides those 
engaged in chartering steamers, there are 
other shipping firms represented, whose 
special business it is to act as go-betweens 
for the sale or purchase of vessels. 

The shipping business of the Exchange 
would be extremely limited in its scope were 
it not for the presence of the merchants and 
l)rokers in grain, Avhose business is carried on 
at the opposite end of the room. These 
form the most important element of “ The 
Baltic.” The Corn Exchange in Mark Lane 
is the centre of the “ spot ’’"trade in parcels 
of home and foreign corn. “The Baltic,” 
on the other hand, is the place Avhere cai'goes, 
as Avell as parcels of foreign grain, either on 
passage or for future shipment, are bought 
and sold. It is no uncommon tiling, durnig 
a period of activity, for the daily transactions 
ill grain to run into hundreds of thousands 
of^ pounds in value. The technicalities in 
this trade vary according to the article dealt 
in. Generally the guarantee of quality is 
“fair aA^erage” of the month’s shipments, 
and samples are kept at the offices of the 
London Corn Trade Association Avhich repre¬ 
sent the necessary standards. The American 
markets have to be closely watched by 



THK KKA DING-ROOM. 






























5G4 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


the dealers, tlie United States l)eing 
now the chief exporters of ^I’ain. Itnssia 
ranks next in importance, and Indian wheats 
are largely dealt in. The Eiver Plate has 
within recent years come to the front, and 
Canada and Australasia luu'e also to be 
reckoned with. The grain sold on ‘‘The 
Baltic ” finds its way to various consnining 
centres both in the United Kingdom and on 
the Continent. 

Grain is sold in London by the quarter, 
but this represents a weight of so many 
pounds, which varies according to the par- 
ticnlar kind of produce concerned. A much 
more suitable system prevails in Liverpool, 
where grain is sold at so much per cental, or 
100 lb. weight. Efforts, so far unavailing, 
have been made to simplify matters by 
establishing a unit Avhich shall be uniform 
thronghont the country. The complicated 
practice which obtains in London is an 
anachronism which is bound, in course of 
time, to be removed-and the sooner the 
better. 

In 1897an “option” or “futures” market in 
grain was established on “ The Baltic” similar 
to that which has for many years flourished 
in Liverpool; it is a counter|)art on a small 
scale of the wheat-pits of Chicago and Kew 
York. This is a speculative market pure 
and simple, and some members of the grain 
trade hold entirely aloof from it, preferring 
to limit their operations to contracts of a 
less risky nature. The mode of dealing in 
options is charming in its simplicity, and is 
peculiarly seductive to the man of gambling 
proclivities. Operations are confined to 
American wheat and maize, which, besides 
being well knoAvn in the trade and readily 
obtainable for delivery, if required, are 
notoriously elusive, and are thus best fitted for 
speculative treatment. The grain is bought 
and sold per load of 1,000 quarters, and the 
gain or loss on each transaction is determined 
when the time for delivery arrives. In many 
cases no delivery of actual produce takes 
place, the speculators simply settling the 
“paper” differences Avhich the transactions 
show. There are two daily “calls,” at which 
brokers back their own opinions or those of 
their clients by offering or bidding for loads. 
Besides the recognised “ calls,” there arc 
others of a more informal nature during the 
day which swell the list of deals. The con¬ 
tracts are registered daily by the London 
Produce Clearing House, which recei\'es from 
seller and buyer alike a deposit of £50 per 
load, and guarantees that the differences shall 
be duly met. A commission on each con¬ 


tract so registered has to be paid to the 
Clearing House by the parties concerned. 
Much has been said and written both for 
and against dealing in “ futures,” but this is 
not the place to discuss either the merits or 
demerits of the system. 

Another leading department of “ The 
Baltic” is that Avhich trades in oil-seeds and 
oil. Linseed and cotton-seed are the most 
important. Bape-seed is also largely bought 
and sold, and some transactions take place in 
poppy-seed. The prices of these articles show 
considerable fluctuations, depending as they 
do on the ever-changing values of their pro¬ 
ducts and other factors. Linseed and cotton¬ 
seed cakes are very valuable for feeding 
cattle and sheep, and the oils which are 
extracted from these seeds and from rape- 
seed are important articles of (jommerce; 
dealings in them and in other oils constitute 
a separate trade on “ The Baltic.” As with 
grain, so with oil-seeds, the guarantee of 
quality is usually that of “ fair average ” of 
the month’s shipments, and standard samples 
are taken by the Incorporated Oil-seed Asso¬ 
ciation, which in this respect is analogous 
to the London Corn Trade Association. 
Linseed comes chiefly from India, the Eiver 
Plate, and Enssia ; cotton-seed comes from 
Egypt; and rape-seed is principally of Indian 
growth. Hull and London are the leading 
crushing centres. Outports in the United 
Kingdom and the Continent also import 
hirgoly. 

Tallow was at one time an article of prime 
importance on “The Baltic,” but owing to 
various causes the trade has now shrunk con¬ 
siderably. More than one fortune has been 
made in tallow, which, being an exceedingly 
slippery article, lent itself naturally to specu¬ 
lation. Sales are held weekly, but, shorn of 
its former glory, the trade is now compara¬ 
tively unexciting. 

In addition to the various ti’ades whose 
representatives congregate beneath a common 
roof, there are on the Exchange otlier 
members whose business brings tliem into 
close relations witli the traders. Bill- 
brokers and financial agents, as well as 
stockbrokers, come in search of clients, who 
require assistance in financing their produce 
or investing their profits. 

A. striking feature of “The Baltic” is its 
cosmopolitanism. The linguistic attainments 
of the membei*s strike one as being re¬ 
markably comprehensive. Erench, German, 
and Greek seem to be as freely spoken as 
English, and the foreign element is so much 
in evidence, both in the Babel of sounds and 


‘‘THE BALTICr 


565 


the appearance of a large proportion of tlie 
members, as to suggest a striking com¬ 
mentary on tlie comfortable asylum wbicli 
England affords for the energetic and capable 
alien. Some of the foreigners of tlie Ex¬ 
change are among its most respected and 
influential members. 

A society, appropriately named “ The 
Cereals,” represents the social and benevo¬ 
lent side of the Exchange. The aims of 
this body are admirably fitted to strengthen 
the friendly ties which bind the meinbers 
together. The benevolent fund of the 
society has been the means of affording 
valuable help in many deserving cases. 

AVitli a membership comprising fine 
specimens of mnscnlarity, ‘‘ The Baltic ” 
is not behindhand in representing the 


athletic spirit of yonng England. Promi¬ 
nent rowing men are to be found among 
the^ members, and the Exchange can boast 
of international footballers and international 
tennis players. Cricket and golf also find 
their exponents, the most recent develop¬ 
ment in athletics being the formation of 
the Baltic Golf Club, A\fliile the gentle art 
of Avheeling is a favourite pastime with 
many. 

Altogether it will be seen that there is 
plenty of vitality in “ The Baltic,” and there 
seems no reason to apprehend any falling off 
in that quality when South Sea House and 
the Exchange part company. The site of 
the new Exchange is in Jeffrey Scjiiare, 
St. Mary Axe, E.C. ,• but the building will not 
l)e ready before PJ()2. 



AN Arn .MN 

Frinn a ivaiar-colour by Uorolhy llordij. 






CiDei*=:/ilbahiu0 In tbe Tillcet Countvv, 

liy J. AVTOX SVMIXtJTOX 















I T was ill the old clays, when a certain 
famous anarchist clnh held its meetings 
in a house in one of the dismal streets 
abutting on the Tottenham Court Hoad. An 
evening paper had asked me to write an article 
about the club. An Italian waiter, whom 
the proprietors of a West-End cafe were pro¬ 
tecting from the Milan police, introduced 
me to it as his guest; and there, in an 
atmosphere of pipes and lager-beer, I met 
Stromboli. His full name, sprawling in true 
cosmopolitan fashion over three languages, 
was Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski; 
])ut Stromboli is as much of it as I have 
ever been able to recall without a special 
effort of the memory. 

He was old, white-haired, white-bearded, 
with a furrowed brow only half hidden by 
his broad-brimmed, unbrushed, soft felt hat. 
He wore a coloured flannel shirt, with a 
turn-down flannel collar, showing the strong 
lines of his throat. Beneath bushy eyebrows 
his eyes gleamed, keen and restless ; and 
when I first saw him he Avas the centre of a 
group of younger revolutionists, whom he 
was evidently entertaining Avith animated 
reminiscences. This Avas the scrap of his talk 
that reached my ears through the hubbub— 
“ Yes, my comrades, it Avas I —moi qui 
vovs imrle —who made the revolution of 
1848 ! It is not in the histories, you tell 
me ? Then so much the Avorse for the. 
histories, I answer.” 

One naturally desired the better acquaint¬ 
ance of an olcl man Avho talked like that. 
My Milanese friend presented me to him 


* C’opyrigbt, 1000, by Francis Cribble, in the United 
States ot America, 


Avith ceremony, as though he Avere introducing 
tAvo rival potentates. I boAved low, Avith a 
due sense of the honour done to me, and 
Avas received Avith graA'e condescension ; and 
then I told Stromboli that I fancied that I 
had heard his name before. 

“ In connection, if I am not mistaken,” I 
added, “ Avith some revolutionary movement.” 

Stromboli’s face lighted Avith a smile. 
AVhether it Avas a smile of vanity, or a smile 
of scorn for the ignorance of the man ANdio 
Avas not quite sure Avhether he had ever 
heard of him or not, I cannot altogether 
determine; but there the smile Avas, and it 
lasted through several sentences. 

“ It is not impossible,” he said, ‘‘ for I 
have done things—aye, and I have suffered 
things ! I have been condemiu'd to death 
by Spaniards at Santiago de Cuba! I checked 
the Avorst excesses of the Paris Commune ! 
And there are other stories. The revolu¬ 
tions, in short, have kept me very busy.” 

“ You speak,” I protested, as though to 
be a revolutionist Avere a calling, a profession, 
a metier ^ 

The last Avord seemed to please him ; he 
smiled again as he rolled it over on his tongue. 

Un metier ? Je le crois him. And why 
not ? Is there no need for ‘ skilled labour ’ 
in the making of a revolution ? No less, I 
take it, than in the building of a battleship. 
Why, yes, then, if you choose to put it so, I 
am a revolutionist by metier''' 

“ But still-” 

The eyes flashed, and the smile changed 
its character. 

“ A poor metier, do you think ? Then 
think again. It has its hazards ? Granted. 
It is less safe than your m^ier of writing 



567 









508 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


for the newspapers ? Granted also. But 
at least it quickens the pulse and stirs the 
blood. At the end of it, if one is still alive, 
one can at least boast that one has lived. 
To have gambled with death in one’s youth 
— that is something worth remembering in 
one’s old age. And I have gambled with 
death wherever I could find a worthy stake 
to play for. If I should ever tell my 
stories-” 

But when a man talks in that way it 
needs little pressure to get the stories told, 
and I had not pursued my acquaintance 
.with Stromboli very far before the pressure 
was applied. 

“ Vojjons ! ” he said to me one day. “ I 
have creditors ; they ask for money, a thing 
which I have had little leisure to amass. If 
there were a way of turning stories into 
money ! ” 

To his astonishment I answered that with 
some stories, at all events, there was a way ; 
and he forthwith told me the following, 
in order that the experiment might be tried. 
I give it in his own words, and call it— 

The Guns of the Due de Montpexsier. 

“ Let me begin at the beginning. 

‘‘ Though I am an old man, you cannot 
expect my memory to go further back than 
1848. But it was I who made the French 
Kevolution of that year. Without me there 
would have been a revolt; but it was thanks 
to me—it was thanks to Jean Antoine 
Stromboli Kosnapulski — that the revolt 
became a revolution. 

“ I was a young man in those days, twenty 
years old, a student at the University of 
Paris. I was tall, with long black hair 
that flowed over my collar; strong as 
though my muscles were of whip-cord ; a 
swordsman who, at the salle eVarmes^ could 
as often as not disarm the fencing-master. 
And when I was not studying—which w'as 
often—I talked politics in the cafh of 
the liatin quarter. There were those who 
said—behind my back—that I talked non¬ 
sense. They would not have dared to say 
it to my face ; and they knew better after¬ 
wards. 

“ One of my comrades, however, seemed 
to understand me better than the others. 
His name was Jacques Durand ; and he 
came to me one day with a proposal. 

“ ‘ Stromboli,’ he whispered in my ear. 
‘ You know that we’re trying to get up a 
revolution ? ’ 

“ I nodded. 

‘‘‘ You ought to be one of us, Stromboli. 


You ought to join the Society of the Friends 
of Kevolution.’ 

‘ I never heard of that Society,’ I 
answered. 

“ ‘ That’s because it’s a secret society,’ 
Jacques explained. ‘ You can’t expect to 
hear about secret societies l)efore you’re 
asked to join them. The more secret they 
are the better. You can understand that, 
can’t you ? ’ 

“ Of course I could understand that. 

“ ‘ I was asked to get you into it,’ Jacques 
continued. ‘ A man like you-’ 

“ One ought not, of course, to be sus¬ 
ceptible to that sort of fiattery. But one ' 
is as one is made ; and I had spoken in 
favour of the revolution in the cafes. So 
it was agreed, and an appointment was 
arranged. 

“ ‘ Next Sunday evening,’Jacques whispered. 

‘‘ ‘Next Sunday evening,’ I replied. 

“ xind now picture me at this important 
turning point of my career. Observe me 
guided by my comrade through many dark 
and dangerous streets, where it seemed to 
me that a man would carry his life in his 
hands, unless he were, like myself, of for¬ 
midable appearance. Our destination was 
a cellar, underneath a and we reached 
it by a flight of narrow^, Avinding, slimy 
stairs. Jacques gave the secret signal; 
three slow, loud knocks upon the panel of 
the door, and then the humming of two 
lines of the Carmagnole— 

“ Vive le son 
Dll canon 

There was a rattling of chains, and then 
the door Avas opened and Ave Avere admitted. 

“‘Sit doAAm, comrade,’ said one Avho 
seemed to bo the President, and I took the 
place that had been kept vacant for me, 
and, as my eyes became used to the gloom, 
gradually surveyed the scene. 

“ There Avere some tAA^enty of us, grouped 
round a plain deal table. Ked flags Avere 
draped upon the damp and dripping Avails. 
In the centre of the table Avas a skull, the 
eyes serving as the sockets of tAvo guttering 
talloAv candles, Avhich Avere our only light. 
The atmosphere Avas misty Avith tobacco 
smoke. But the strangest thing Avas that 
almost all the comrades Avere personally 
knoAvn to me. All of them, like myself, 
Avere students at the University of Paris; 
and there Avas not a man among them Avhom 
I had ever suspected of being an earnest 
politician. 

“ But Avhat of that ? ‘ Still AA'aters run 

deep’ is your English proverb, is it not? 




STJWJfBOLT AND THE GUNS. 


509 



This was, perhaps, an illustration of it. 
Otherwise—if that were a rude student’s 
practical joke at the expense of the stranger 

wlio had come among-I said to myself, 

‘ then they shall soon learn that revolution is 
a subject upon which Jean Antoine Stromboli 
Kosnapnlski does not jest.’ 

“But the voice of the President of the 
Society interrupted me. 

“ ‘ The new comrade,’ he said, ‘ will now 
take the oath to keep the secrets and obey 
the orders of the Friends of Kevolntion, and 
will drink to them in blood drawn from his 
own veins.’ 

“ And I did this, a vein in my hand being 
opened with a penknife, and a drop let fall 
from it into a tumbler of red wine ; and the 
business of the evening was proceeded with. 
Once more it was the President who spoke :— 

“ ‘ For the benefit of the new comrade I 
explain the raison tVUre of the Friends of 
Eevolntion. Our purpose is to pave the 
way for a revolution by removing those who 
are likely to be the chief obstacles to it 
when it conies. A\T choose the victim l)y 
ballot, and then we choose the executioner 
by ballot, so that injustice may be done to 


no one. I give no indications ; 
it is not my place to give any. 
Some of you may think that a 
prince of the blood royal, now 
in Paris, holding high military 

command- But this is your 

affair, not mine ; the vote is 
secret. Vote according to your 
consciences.’ 

“ AVe voted in solemn silence, 
using the President’s silk hat for 
a ballot-urn. Seeing that I 
paused to tliink, my neighbour 
whispered a name into my ear. 
The suggestion pleased me, and 
I took it; and in due course the 
President of the assemlily shuffled 
the papers and read them to us 
one by one. It was like this— 

“ ‘ Montpensier, Montpensier, 
Alontpensier, Montpensier. Com¬ 
rades, the vote is unanimous for 
citizen the Due de Montpensier.’ 

“ There were loud cheers, and 
then there was a deadly silence. 
TiOoking round and seeing that 
the eyes of all were fixed intently 
upon me, I understood clearly 
what was coming next. The 
victim having been selected, they 
meant to choose me as his execu¬ 
tioner. They thought that I 
should be frightened, that I should draw 
back, that I should give them the chance to 
laugh at me for talking bombast in the caJU. 
But they did not know me ; they did not 
know Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapnlski. 

“ ‘ Comrades, I claim the work ! ’ I cried, 
leaping to my feet with vigour, and so 
making my first appearance in any revolution. 
‘The choice is good,’ I continued, with 
impetuosity. ‘There could be no greater 
obstacle to revolution than a prince of the 
blood royal, who is also the commanding 
officer of the artillery, and would sweep the 
streets with his cannon when the people 
rise. But there is no need of any further 
ballot. A volunteer is better than a pressed 
man at any time, and I answer for Mont¬ 
pensier. Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapnlski 
undertakes to see to it that Montpensier 
shall never turn his guns upon the people.’ 

“ It was the turning of the tables on the 
jesters. They had brought me to this 
meeting-place, tllinking first to terrify me 
by assigning me this perilous task, and then 
to laugh at me for iny fears and my 
credulity in sn])]losing tliat tliey were in 
earnest; and, lo ! I had stood up and made 






570 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



them real conspirators against their 
It was their faces, instead of mine, that 
were now pale with terror ; and their efforts 
to wriggle out of the responsibilities to 
Avhich I had committed them Avere langha])le. 

‘‘ ‘ It is Avell,’ said the President; ‘ but a. 
committee must now be constituted to 
consult Avith tlie comrade Stroml)oli 
concerning ways and means.’ 

Which meant, of course, a 
committee to break it to me 
gently that tlic Friends of 
Revolution had made a fool 
of me. 1 repudiated tlie 


do not disclose. AVithin a fortnight you 
shall know foi’ certain that tlie Due de 
^lontpensier Avill never turn his guns upon 


proposal Avith all my indigna¬ 
tion. 

“ ‘ M. le President,’ I said, ‘ J 
Avill ask for a committee to advise 
me Avhen I need advice. It Avas because I 
did not feel the need of it that I offered to 
execute the task. I have my plan, Avhich I 


‘ Comrades, 1 claim Ihe 
•work ! ’ ” 

the people. In the mean¬ 
time, drink to my enter¬ 
prise, and then hold your 
peace about it.’ 

“Had I convinced them ? 
Or had the power of my 
eye laid them under a 
spell ? Or had my earnest¬ 
ness made them ashamed ? 
I cannot say for certain. 
All that I knoAV is that 
they rose to their feet and 
pledged me in the Avine- 
cup, the toast being— 

“ ^ To the comrade Avho 
Avill remove Montpensier ! ’ 
“ But I corrected them. 

“ ‘ Drink, rather,’ I said, To the comrade Avho 
ansAvers for Montpensier.’ And they drank. 




ST ROM BOLT AXD TEE OCXS. 


571 



“ Aiifl now you iliiuk, |)erlia])s, that I bad 
some dark design to be executed with dagger, 
witli pistol, or witli poison. Perisli the 
thought! I am not tliat kind of revolutionist. 
On the contrary, it has always been my aim 
to raise the tone of revolution by employing 
finesse instead of violence, wherever possible. 
And this time it seemed to me finesse 
could be employed, that I could persuade the 
Due de Montpensier to do my bidding, if 
only I could get speech with him upon a 
suitable occasion. 

“ The difficulty was, of 
course, to find a suitable 
occasion, to manage to meet 
the prince at some time 
when he Avas amusing him¬ 
selfand unattended 
by his suite. All princes 
do these things, and it is 
not necessary to belong to 
the secret police to find out 
when and where. I asked 
(fiarisse, about whom I need 
only tell you that she Avas 
beautiful and that she loved 
me. Ah, dear Clarisse! But 
this is no place for senti¬ 
mental memories. 

‘ I should not Avonder,’ 

Clarisse said, ‘ if he Avere to 
be at the next masked ball 
at the Closerie des Lilas.’ 

“ ‘ Eh ! Avhat ? ’ I inter¬ 
rupted. ‘ A royal prince at 
a masked ball among the 
students ? ’ 

“ ‘ And AA’hy not, seeing 
that he Avill be masked, and 
no one Avill ever know of it 
Avho is not told ? ’ 

‘‘ There Avas reason in that; l)ut a further 
difficulty presented itself. 

“‘His being there is little use to me if 1 
cannot recognise him,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Perhaps I could help you,’ Clarisse 
answered. 

“ ‘ You knoAv him, then ? ’ 

“ ‘ He does not know that I know him,’ 
she replied. 

“ ‘ But he has spoken to you ? ’ 

“ She nodded, laughing. 

“ ‘ And Avould again ? ’ 

“ ‘ Perhaps.’ 

“ ‘ And if I Avere there, and Avatching, you 
Avould make a sign to me ? ’ 

“‘I might even do that, if you Avere to 
ask me nicely.’ 

“ So Clarisse Avas enlisted as my ally. 


though without being taken into my con¬ 
fidence ; and I felt sure that with her help 
I should be able to carry out the plan that I 
had made. 

“ ‘ We may (juarrel about you, Clarisse,’ 
Avas all I told her ; and at that she laughed 
and clapped her hands. 

“ ‘ Tliat Avill be beautiful! ’ she said ; for 
to be ((.uarrelled about is a joy to all Avomeu 
AA’hen they are young and beautiful. 

“ Then I made otlier arrangements, and 


“ ‘ I miglifc even 
do that, if you 
'sverc to ask me 
nicely.’ ” 


told my friend Jac(|ues Durand that I should 
AAiint him Avith me on that night.’ 

“ ‘ You Avill render me,’ I said, ‘ the help 
that circnmstances suggest; but more than 
that I shall not tell you.’ 

“For a secret is not a secret any longer, 
Avhen more than one man knoAvs it. Time 
enough that Jacques should kuoAA^ my secret 
AA'hen the days had passed and the night of 
the masked ball arriA’ed. 

“ It came before the Aveek AA^as out, 
and there can be little need for me to 
tell yon Avhat it looked like. You may 
still see the same thing at any time in 




572 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Paris, when the students are keeping 
carnival. 

“ A vast room with a polisliecl floor, and 
galleries rnnning round it, where they served 
refreshments ; a profusion of gaily coloured 
lamps suspended from the ceiling ; a string 
hand that played the tunes that set your 
feet dancing whether you would or no ; a moh 
of men and girls all gaily and fantastically 
attired—a goodly proportion of them in 
masks and dominoes, and all of them, or 
nearly all, uproarious in their hehaviour. 
Such was the scene through which I strode, 
ill the garb of Mephistopheles, to answer for 
Montpensier. 

“Jacques followed close behind me in the 
costume of a mediaeval jester—a costume 
which, I allow, was scarcely appropriate to 
the occasion. Put I had no time to think 
of that; for Clarisse, dressed as the Queen 
of Sheba, was already beckoning to me. 

“ ‘ Keep near,’ she whispered. ‘ When 
the time comes, I will hold up two Angers 
to you, thus.’ 

“ So I kept near, and saw^ man after man 
come up, and speak to her, and go away 
again. My patience wiis sorely tried ; and I 
began to think that she had led me on a 
vain chance, after all. My eyes had begun 
to w-ander about the room wdien Jacques 
recalled iny attention, saying— 

“ ‘ Look there, Stromboli ! look ! ’ 

“ I looked. A tall figure, in the guise of 
a Spanish Inquisitor, masked beyond all 
possibility of recognition, w'as bending dow n 
and talking to Clarisse. Her eyes caught 
mine, and she lifted her two fingers, giving 
the preconcerted signal. The hour had 
come. 

“ ‘ KoW', Jacques,’ I wdiispered, ‘ I rely on 
you. Support me in this, and you shall see 
how revolutions can be helped upon their 
w'ay by unexpected means.’ 

“ ‘ Put wLat- 

“ ‘ Wait,’ I interrupted. ‘ The time for 
explanations will come afterwards. Now is 
the time to act.’ 

“And so saying, I stepped forward and 
slapped my Spanish Inquisitor violently on 
the back. 

“ ‘ What is the meaning of this, sir ? ’ I 
cried angrily. ‘What do you mean by 
insulting a lady wdio is here under my 
escort ? ’ 

“ At first I thought he would have tried 
to strike me ; but, with an effort, he re¬ 
strained himself. 

“‘ You make a mistake, sii‘,’ be answered. 
‘ 1 do not think the lady complains of liaving 


been insulted. If she does, I am quite ready 
to apologise to her.’ 

“ He looked at her, as though appealing 
to her to say something to save the situation, 
and I doubt not tliat, bein^g frightened, she 
would have said it, had I not made haste to 
speak again before she had time to do so. 

“ ‘ You will apologise ? MTdl and good, 
sir, pi’ovided that you apologise to me as 
well as to Madame. Put an apology from a 
masked man is an apology that one does not 
accept. Take off your mask, or I shall take 
it off for you and insist upon satisfaction 
for this insult.’ 

“ Put to unmask w^as, of coui’se, the one 
thing that he w’ould not do—tliat w'as what 
I had foreseen when I had laid this ])lan. 
And the next thing that I heard was the 
voice of another masked man—some courtier 
evidently—whispering in niy ear— 

“ ‘ Don’t make a fool of yourself. Ybrn’ro 
talking to the Due de Montpensier. It 
mustn’t be known that he was here.’ 

“ I had expected sometliing of that sort, 
however, and was ready with my reply. 

“ ‘ I don’t believe you,’ I said, with dignity. 

‘ It is no use to romance like that with Jean 
xVntoine Stromboli Kosnapulski. The story 
is the lie of a coward wdio dares not face 
the consequences of his misbehaviour.’ 

“ Again the man approached and 
wdiispered— 

“ ‘ If money is wdiat you Avant to stop this 
row-’ 

“They were in such a quandary, you see, 
that they were ready to bribe me not to 
expose them. Put I Avas a revolutionist, 
not a blackmailer, and this fear of exposure, 
thus c?indidly confessed, w’as the thing that 
I had relied upon to help me to my end. I 
took no notice of the offer, Imt turned 
again to my other masked antagonist, 
saying—• 

“ ‘ I give you your choice, sir, to nnmask 
and apologise, or to give me satisfaction this 
very evening. I undertake to provide the 
place and the Aveapons. An affair of honour 
can be settled as Avell by candlelight as by 
daylight, and you are quite Avelcome to fight 
me Avith your mask on if yon prefer it.’ 

“He Avas a brave man —I Avill do him 
that justice — and I had pushed him into a 
very aAvkAvard corner. F or a minute or tAvo 
he conferred in hasty AAdiispers Avith his 
friend, and, Avithout troubling to listen, I 
overheard fragments of their colloquy. 

“ ‘ Mustn’t let all Paris ring Avith this.’ 

“ ‘ Anything to avoid a scandal.’ 

“ ‘ Only ail affair of Aa'c minutes.’ 




HTROMllOLi AKJ) THE GUNS. 



^‘‘Teacli tlio Jioisy l)raggarfc the lesson lie 
deserves.’ 

“Then, when I thonghb the conference 
had lasted long eiiongh— 

“ ‘ Your decision, sir ? ’ I demanded. 

“ It was the masked friend who answered, 
speaking very cpiietly— 

“ ‘ Pro\'ided that we can get away from 
here without being followed 
by a crowd, we are at your 


the same tone. ‘ AVe have only to behave as 
though we were reconciled, and sit together 
for a iniimte at one of these refreshment- 
tables.’ 

“' It Avas agreed. The crowd took no 
further notice of ns, for little disturbances 


sword out oi' his liaiid.” 


of that kind were nsua! enough 
at the Closerie des Lilas. Five 
minutes later the four of us Avere 
seated together in a carriage, 
driving to the house in Avhich I 
had hired a room in readiness 
for this affair—a long, empty 
room above a shop that Avas for 
the moment Avithout a tenant. 

“ The duelling-swords Avere there, the blinds AA^ere 
(IraAvn and the shutters closed, and a sufficiency of 
candles stood ready to be lighted ; but one more 
desperate effort Avas made to keep the peace. 

“ ‘ If my friend is Avilling to unmask here-’ 




THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


;)/4 

‘ He can unmask or not, as lie likes,’ I 
directed Jacques to answer; M)ut 1 shall 
expect him to fight in any case.’ 

“ ‘ That is absolutely final ? ’ 

“ ‘ Absolutely.’ 

“ ‘ Very well. It is an unpleasant business. 
TiCt us make haste and get it over.’ 

“ So lots were drawn for stations and for 
weapons. The lights were arranged, so far 
as possible, so as to favour neither of us. 
Still wearing our masks, but stripped of 
every trimming of our fancy costumes which 
could hinder the freedom of our movement, 
we advanced to the centre of the floor. 

‘‘ The toss of the coin had given Jacques 
the direction of the combat. He made us 
cross our blades at the usual distance from, 
each other, and gave the usual signal— 

“ ‘ Alkz, messieurs ! ’ 

“ My antagonist could fence well. It was, 
no doubt, because of his skill with the small¬ 
sword that he had consented to this meeting. 
He meant to make it clear to me that he 
had spared my life, and then trust to my 
gratitude and my sense of honour to keep 
his secret. But though he was a good 
fencer, Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski 
was a better. 

“ You know the trick of fence which the 
Trench call eiilueer le fer. After a cautious 
])ass or two, I tried that, with the result 
that I whirled my opponent’s sword out of 
his hand. 

“ ‘ Try again, sir, when you are ready,’ I 
said, lowering my point. 

“ He tried again, figliting more viciously 
this time, but with no more eifect. Again 
he found himself in one comer of the room 
and his weapon in another. 

‘‘ ‘ Perhaps, sir. Fortune will be kinder to 
you the third time,’ I suggested ; and for 
the third time he advanced and faced me. 

“ This time I played with him longer. I 
took the Ilf!ns hasse.^ which is always fatal, 
and Avithheid my lunge at the moment when 
he saAV clearly tliat, if I had chosen, I could 
have run him through. Not until nearly 
two minutes had elapsed did I give the 
quick turn of my Avrist AA-hich disarmed him 
as before. 

“ Then. I felt that I had sufficiently proA^ed 
myself, and that the moment for my great 
roup had come. 

“ ‘ kSIi*,’ I said, boAviug courteously to this 
proud prince, ‘ I honour you for your courage 
in this eucouiiter Avith one Avho has the 
advantage over you in point of strength and 
skill. I could haA^e unmasked you, or I 
could haA^e killed you. Your life and your 


reputation have been equally at my mercy ‘ 
and noAv I am Avilling to make you a free 
gift of both, on one condition.’ 

“ The ansAver Avas brave enough. 

“ ‘ I have asked no favour from you, sir.’ 

“ ‘ It is an easy condition, sir,’ I continued, 
‘ or I Avould not affront you by proposing 
it. I only ask your promise that, AAdiateA^er 
may happen, Avhatever the provocation, you, 
as commander of the artillery, Avill never 
cause a gun to be fired upon the people of 
Paris.’ 

“ He laughed. I imagine he thought he 
Avas dealing Avith a lunatic. 

“ ‘ Is that all ? ’ he said. ‘ I promise 
gladly. Nothing could be further from my 
Avish than to use the guns of the French 
artillery against Frenchmen. Shall Ave now 
say ‘‘ Groocl evening ” ? ’ 

“ He Avas going, but I stopped him. 

“ ‘ Stay,’ I said ; ‘ it is necessary that I 
should liaA^e that in AATiting.’ 

“ ‘ My Avord, then,’ he olqccted, ‘ is not 
enough for you ? ’ 

“ ‘ It is enough for me,’ I answered ; ‘ but 
I must liaA^e something to shoAV to my friends 
in proof that I have executed the task 
AA'hich they entrusted to me. Here is the 
document to Avhich I desire your signature.’ 

“ I produced the slip of paper. These 
Avere the Avords upon it— 

“ ‘ Louis Charles, Dus de Montpensier, 
in consideration of my life having been spared 
in fair fight hj Jean Antoine Sfromloli 
Kosnctpidsld, do hereby engage that in no 
event—not even in the event of revolution —• 
ubll 7, as commander of the artlMery, cause 
or germit the cannon to he used against the 
geo'ple. 

“ ‘ As witness my hand.^ 

“ ‘ Noav, M. le Due,’ I said, as I handed it 
to him, ‘if you will sign this document, I 
pledge my Avord of honour that the Avorld 
shall kiioAV nothing of it so long as you are 
faithful to the undertaking Avhich it 
expresses. On tlie other hand, if you prefer 
not to sign it, I am Avilling to renew the 
combat.’ 

“Yet again the prince stepped aside to 
confer Avith his companion. I caught odd 
Avords and phrases of their conversation— 
‘ Dangerous madmau.’ ‘ Official denial.’ 
‘ Only AAny out of it.’ ‘ Avoid a scandal at 
all hazards.’ But I affected not to hear, 
and Avaited. 

“ ‘ ATell, ^1. le Due ? ’ I said at last. 

“He laughed again. 

“ ‘ AYell, well, suppose I sign ? You have 


STROMBOLI AXD THE GVXS, 


O i o 



pen and ink there ? Tliank jon. Even in 
the event of revolution ? How ridienlous ! 
As if there were any chance of another 
revolution in this country ! ’ 

“‘Nevertheless, M. le Due,’ I answered, 
watching him as he 
wrote his name, and as 
both his masked friend 
and Jaccjues Durand 
witnessed the signature 
—‘ nevertheless, M. le 
Due, the wise man is he 
who is prepared for all 
emergencies.’ 

^ ^ ^ 

“ We saluted cere¬ 
moniously and drove 
away, this time in sepa¬ 
rate carriages ; and most 
of what remains of my 
story is in the history 
books. All the world 
knows that the revolu¬ 
tion came, as I antici¬ 
pated, bursting like a 
thunderclap in a clear 
sky. All the world 
knows that King Louis 
IMiilippe drove away 
from the Tnileries in a 
cab, and travelled to 
England under the alias 
of ‘ Mr. Smith,’ hoping, 
as he explained, to pass 
as the head of the 
English family of that 
name. Eut just one new 
thing 1 can tell you —a 
thing that I learnt after¬ 
wards from one of the 
royal servants, a maid 
who waited upon the 
Duchesse de Montpen- 
sier and became a good 
Kepuldican after the dynasty had fallen. 

“ ‘ All, that scene ! ’ she said to me. ‘ That 
terrible scene ! Never shall I forget it ! ’ 

“ ‘ What scene, Babette ? ’ I asked her. 

“ ‘ What scene ? ’ she repeated, and then 
described it to me. 

“ ‘ It was on that dreadful morning when 
the news came to us that Paris had, as we 
said, gone mad, and the people were on their 
way from Saint Antoine to batter down the 
palace gates. I was alone with the Duchesse, 
who was crying. I was trying to console 
her, telling her that the police would soon 
take all the wicked rioters to prison ; and 


as I did this the door opened, and Avho 
should enter, unaniionnced, but Queen Marie 
Amelie herself. Ah, she was a Avoman of 
spirit, though she Avas old, Avas Queen Marie 
Amelie! ^ 


“ ‘ If you prefer 
not to sign, 1 am 
willing to renew 
the combat.’ ” 

u t u ^Vhere is Montpensier ? ” she asked, 
Avithout a Avord of greeting. 

“ ‘ It Avas no time for idle forms of 
etiquette, so the Duchesse stepped to tlie 







THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


57(1 

other door of licr l)oudoii* iind called down 
the passage, just as any coiiiinoii woman 
might. 

‘‘ ‘ A minute later M. le Dnc entered. He 
was dressed as though for a journey, and 
his face was pale—I do not think I ever 
saw a paler face. Ignoring my presence, 
the Queen broke out into I’eproaclies. 

“ ‘ “ Montpensier ! For shame, Mont- 
pensier ! Your father’s throne in peril, and 
yon strike no blow for it ! ” 

“ ‘ If possible, his pallor deepened. Even 
a girl, as I was, could sec that there was 
some struggle, which I did not understand, 
proceeding in his mind. 

u < a \YPat would you have me do, my 
mother ? ” he asked, trembling before her. 

u i to do ? ” she repeated. “ Was 

it for this, then, that you were given the 
command of the artillery—that you should 
tell us in the day of trouble that you don’t 
know what to do ? For shame, Montpensier ! 
And, once more, for shame ! Can’t you 
l)r‘ing out your guns and shoot this rabble 

down ? Better to die at your post-” 

‘‘ ‘ He answered, “ Anything is better, 
my mother, than that the French guns 
should be turnted on the French people.” 

“ ‘ “ And to think that it is my own son 
who speaks thus to me ! To think that I 
have lived to learn that I am the mother 
of a coward ! ” 

“ ‘ It was clear that the taunt stung him 
to the cpiick. I thought that it must move 
him to take up the challenge and offer to 
risk his life against any odds. But no ; he 
stood his ground and answered, with a cold, 
impassive stare— 

“ ‘ “ My mother, if I told you that I have 
given my plighted word to act as I am 
acting, you would not believe me ; but so it 
is. Home day, it may be, you will know tlie 
truth. In the meantime I wonld rather be 


til ought a coward than know myself to be a 
liar.’’ 

“ ‘ “ Yes, Montpensier, you are a coward ! 
Coward—coward ! ” she hissed, and turned 
upon her heel and left him. 

“ ‘ And he was a coward, wasn’t he ? ’ 
Babettc commented. ‘ Even a Republican 
like you must think of him as a coward.’ 

‘‘ ‘ No, no, Babettc,’ I answered ; ‘ he was 
no coward. He was an honourable man 
who faithfully kept the pledge that had 
been extracted from him by Jean Antoine 
Htromboli Kosnapulski.’ 

“ And then, in answer to her questions, I 
told her as much of the truth as it was good 
for her to know, and also described to her 
the last scene of all in this remarkable 
adventure. 

“I now come to it. Observe ! 

“ The populace, as you know, besieged 
the Tuileries, and the king and the royal 
family drove away in cabs. I was in the 
crowd, and as the Due de Montpensier came 
ont of the gate, I advanced a step or two to 
speak to him. 

“ ‘ M. le Due,’ I said, ‘ you are an honour¬ 
able man, and you ha\e kept your word. 
You did not use your guns against the 
people. Good. Accept my congratulations, 
and let me retni'ii to you the written uncle> 
taking which you gave me, in order that 
you may use it, if need be, to rehabilitate 
your reputation with yonr friends.’ 

‘^‘I thank you, sir,’ he answered, bowing 
gravely, as he took the paper from me. ‘ I 
now understand that a revolutionist may 
also be a man of honour.’ 

“ He Avhipped up the horses and drove 
off, and I have never seen him since. Bnt 
now you know how I made my first appearance 
in any revolution, and Avhat was my meaning 
when I said that it was I who brought about 
tlie overthrow of the Orleanists in 1848. ” 









ART AND LETTERS IN A SURREY TOWN. 

By Charles T. Bateman. 



T he county town of Surrey cherishes a 
distinct literary flavour. Tennyson, 
under tlie disguise of Astolat, de¬ 
scribed Sir Lancelot wandering across its 
solitary Downs, and how the knight “full 
often lost in fancy, lost his way.” Guildford 
boasts of many champions. Mr. E. A. Judges 
has told the history of its buildings and its 
notal)le sons, Mr. Balph Nevill has descanted 
on its extremely picturesque architecture, 
Di’.AVilliamson has tabulated its trade tokens, 
and Mr. E. Bonner amused us with its 


Lo Bengula. 


Photo b\j~\ 


MR. sp:lous’ house, aepine lodge. 


election fights. Many well-known men in breadth escapes from 


a specially constructed museum, they atti'act 
visitors from all parts of England, as well as 
many foreigners. Over two hundred exhibits 
hang round the walls, embracing the larger 
South African mammalia and excellent types 
of buffalo, elk, and deer. The king of beasts, 
shot in the Hartley Hills, South Africa, 
occupies the place of honour in the centre ; 
but this is only a i*epresentativo of the many 
lions killed by Mr. Selous. At least a dozen 
beads are there, and in close proximity the 
skin of a noble animal given to the hunter 

by 

The 


savage king 
quite took to Mr. 
Selous on his first 
arrival in Africa, 
and remained very 
friendly with him 
in the succeeding 
years, until some 
time previous to the 
former’s death, 
when differences 
arose between 
them. 

Over one mantel¬ 
piece may be seen 
tbe obsolete four- 
bore elephant gun 
with which the 
hunter did sucli 
execution from 
1872 to 1877), and 
over the otlier bang 
sketches 1)y his 
sister. Miss A. IL 
Selous, of hair- 
enraged lions and 


{Shaiocross, Guildford. 


art and letters have delighted at one time or 
another to make their home in its beautiful 
neighbourhood, and to some of them the 
reader is here introduced. 

After thirty years’ wandering in four con¬ 
tinents, Mr. Frederick Courteney Selous, that 
“ mighty hunter ” and most picturesque of 
writers, settled in the Huildford district. 
Alpine Lodge, AA^orplesdon, the pleasant 
country house where he resides, possesses 
great attractions for naturalists and lovers of 
his books, containing as it does some remark¬ 
ably fine examples of big game. Housed in 


577 


hunted elephants during an adventurous 
career. 

After leaving Engby, and having read all 
the books written on sport and travel in 
South Africa, Mr. Selous determined to 
adopt “ the free and easy gipsy sort of life 
described by Gordon Cumining, Baldwin, 
and others.” Accordingly, on September 4th, 
1871, as he says in “A Hunter’s AAhinder- 
ings,” “ I set foot for the first time upon the 
sandy shores of Algoa Bay, with four hun¬ 
dred pounds in my pocket and the weight of 
only nineteen vears upon my shoulders.” 

2 R 








578 


77/A’ WTNDSOH JlAdAZTXi:. 



A CAMP EPISODE. 

From a photo lent by Mr. F. C. Selous. 

Since then he has gathered a quarter of a 
century’s unique experience ini^frica—^vhere 
once for three whole years he never saw a 
newspaper or a coin—in the rocky fastnesses 
of Asia Minor, in hlurope, and amidst tlie 
snows of the Kocky IMountains. In addi¬ 
tion to this he bore an important part in 
pioneering Rhodesia, and figured largely in 
the Matabele campaign. As a record, three 
graphic books, written modestly and lucidly, 
have appeared to stir the public 
with remarkalde tales of pluck 
and endurance, and as a reward 
the Royal Geographical Society 
have bestowed the Cuthbert , A 
Peek Grant, the Back Premium, 
and their highest honour, the 
Pounder’s Gold Medal, for his 
explorations, Avhile the old 
Rugbeians, headed by the pre¬ 
sent Archbishop of Canterbury, 
testified Avith a liandsome salver 
to their appreciation of their 
schoolfellow’s exploits. 

Mr. Selous is blessed Avith^ a 
plucky lady as his wife. Not 
only has Mrs. Selous shared his 
travels on one expedition, but 
she Avas exposed to serious 
danger during the Matabele 
uprising. The graceful dedi¬ 
cation in “ Sunshine and Storm 
in Rhodesia” admirably de¬ 
scribes the situation : “ To my 
Avife, Avho during the last feAV 
months has at once been my 


’ greatest anxiety and my greatest 
comfort.” 

A feAV days since Mr. Selous kindly 
gaA'e me some interesting facts 
and impressions for the Windsor. 
To see and talk Avith him is to im¬ 
mediately recognise the born hunter 
and sportsman. Above medium 
M height, finely proportioned, alert and 
JR muscular, Avith steady grey eyes and 
% pleasant frank features, one realises 
•1 to some extent the (pialitics that 
’! luiA^e contributed to his success, not 
■ only in making big bags, but in 
escaping serious injury and in Avin- 
i ning the goodAvill of the Avarlike 
- tribes through Avhose territory he 
‘ ' passed. 

. i “ What countries have you ex- 
! ] 3 lored in your hunting expeditions ? ” 
I first asked Mr, Selous. 

“ The interior of South Africa, 
Avhere I Avas travelling from 1871 to 
1890, excepting for occasional runnings 
home,” he replied. “No, I never reached 
as liigh as the spot where Livingstone died, 
but I came Avithin 150 miles of it. 1 
crossed the Zambesi River at A\ankies in 
1877, and got to Sitanda’s on the Lukanga 
River. In 1894, and again in 1895 and 
1897, 1 visited x^sia Minor to shoot wild 
goats and big deer. Tavo or three articles 
concerning these trips have appeared in the 



CABIN USED BY MR. AND MRS. SELOUS. 
From (t photo lent by Mr. F. O. Selous. 






ART AND LETTERS IN A SURETY TOWN. 


Field and (Jraphic, the latter being splendidly 
illustrated from my photos by Mr. Frank 
Dadd. Then I ha\'e made two excursions to 
the Eockies for Avapiti, mule deer, Avild sheep, 
and prong-horned antelopes. On the first 
expedition Mrs. Selous accompanied me. 
We started iji August, 181)7, on a four months’ 
trip, Avitli a friend, four servants, and a 
guide.” 

On the occasion named Mr. Selous suc¬ 
ceeded in obtaining a large number of capital 
snapshots, illustrating camp episodes and 
the country tlirough Avhicli he passed. Ba^ 
liis kind permission two of them are here 


071) 

morning Ave turned out to find that sno^^' 
had fallen heavily during the night, and 
that we Avere almost embedded in our tents. 
The thermometer went down beloAv zero, 
and our meat for breakfast was frozen.” 

“ Yes,” laughingly added Mrs. Selous, who 
had been an interested listener, Avhen 1 
looked out, there Avas our cook sawing aAvay 
Avith all his might at a huge lump of frozen 
meat, and the snow lying thick round the 
tent.” 

“ M hen Ave once got among the mountains,'' 
Ml'. Selous continued, “ we Averc iieA^er loAver 
than 8,000 ft. aboA'e sea level, and on one 



Photo b//] 


sklous’ museum at alpine lodge. 


reproduced. The pack-horse carries a prong- 
hoi'iied antelope, just brought into camp, 
and the view also shows Mrs. Selous standing 
to the right, Avhilst the second photo 
represents an old mining cabin once used 
by Mr. and Mrs. Selous as sleeping quarters. 
The party generally stayed a few days at 
each camping-ground to exhaust the game 
in the neighbourhood. Then they moA^ed 
off another ten miles or so to “ fresh fields 
and pastures new.” 

“ Did you rough it much ” I asked. 

“No,” cheerfully replied Mr. Selous, “ Ave 
did not suffer any undue hardship. One 


occasion camped at a height of ](),r)00 ft. 
Me worked hard, and had a good liit of 
climbing, but obtained some fair specimens. 
Last year I visited the district again, being 
met at _ the nearest railway station by the 
same guide, with pack-horses and serA'ants.” 

“ Have you any figures of the lions or 
other big game you liave shot, Mr. Selous ? ” 

“As regards lions,” the Imnbir replied. 
“ I have not l)een able to afford the time 
to hunt them specially, though never losing 
an opportunity of attacking all that came in 
my way. Considering the long time that I 
Avas travelling and hunting in the interior of 





THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


580 




MK. SKLOUS’ NARROWEST ESCAl’E. 

From a sketch hy Miss A. B. Selous, kindly lent hy Mr. F. C. Selous. 


Africa, I have not shot many lions. I know 
the exact nninber. Unaided I killed twenty- 
live, and helped to shoot eleven more ; out 
some of the latter were mine hy hnnters 
law, as I gave them the first hnllet.^ I 
hunted elephants for their ivory, and obtained 
as many as I could, as it was by the sale ot 
ivory alone that I paid the expenses of my 
earlier expeditions. My total of elephants is 
one hundred and eleven. Of these I killed 
most between 1872 and 187o, but since the 
latter date I have not done much regular 
elephant hunting. As regards other animals, 

I despatched very many ; for year after year 
I fed great nnmi}ers of natives months at a 
time. Some particulars of the game shot for 
two years are given at the end of ‘ A Hnntei s 
Wanderings,’ but I most emphatically state 
that I never slaughtered animals for mere 
sport. Most of those shot were killed 
because I required meat for my large native 
following.” 

“ I suppose, too, yon brought home some 
of yonr specimens for scientific purposes ? 

‘‘ Yes. I preserved many complete 
examples of the large mammalia of Sontli 
Africa, and these have been distributed 
through dealers all over the world. Several 
can be seen in the Natural History Museum 
at South Kensington ; others are placed in 
the collections at Cape Town and Melbourne , 
and last year, when passing through Chicago, 
1 saw five of my animals in the Field 


Columbian Museum. The Hon. W^^^er 
Kothschild lias also some at Tring. Here 
—referring to his own exhibits ‘‘ all the 
heads belong to animals shot by myself. I 
make it a \’ule to have only those thus 
obtained. No, I cannot say whether^ this is 
unique in England in that respect. Of couise 
there are far larger private museums, koi 
instance, that of Sir Edmund Loder at 
Leonardslee, near Horsham, and also that 
of the Hon. Walter Eothschild. Although m 
the former case many of the most iiitcrestmg 
specimens are the trophies of Sir Edmund s 
own rifle, the hnlk of them have been 
chased. Rothschild’s collection is one oi 
the finest museums of natural history in the 
Kingdom, but none of the exhiliits have 
been shot or collected by the owner.” 

“What was the worst situation yon ox- 
pcricnced in your life ? ” I queried. A\ e 
were then looking at the series of sketclies 
executed by Miss Selous. 

“Oh, I think the adventure witli the 
elephant, of which you will find particulars 
in my book.” On this occasion, it will be 
roraembered, the hunter got into close 
quarters with a cow elephant almost at the 
close of a heavy day’s hunt. Anticipating a 
charge from the ponderous brute, he urged 
his horse to a gallop, but the tired beast 
could not make pace, and almost before its 
owner realised his position the elephant had 
attacked him in the rear. The impact rolled 



ART AND LETTERS IN A SURREY TOWN. 


581 


over tlie horse, broke tlie saddle-girfclis, and 
deposited the rider under the hindquarters 
of the elephant, Avho, kneading the ground 
with its forelegs, evidently expected to 
annihilate its human assailant. It was a 
near shave, but Mr. Selous, though he had 
a little too much of elephant for once, 
managed to crawl away unliurt and even¬ 
tually to shoot the tusker. 

Before leaving Mr. Selous I asked what 
country he tliought of exploring next, 
but he said that he had not yet decided. 
“ You see,” lie continued, “ when a man is 
married things are different.” And now, 
too, there is a bonny, bright-faced little 
Selous—ten months old—who, during a 
part of our chat, took his share in the inter¬ 
view. 

Our renowned epic painter, Mr. Gr. F. 
Watts, K.A., delights in spending the winter 
months at Limnerslease, near Ouildford. 
To talk about Mr. Watts starts a tempting 
subject, for is he not one of our few grand 
old men still remaining ? In the opposite 
direction Mr. B. AY. Leader, K.x4., lives at 
Shere, and amidst the surrounding country 
11 lids and paints those delightful landscapes so 


characteristic of Surrey. But, as space 
foi-bids, let us turn to another artist, Mr. 
Arthur Drummond, whose recent work has 
met with an enthusiastic reception. 

Few pictures within recent years, compara¬ 
tively speaking, have attained the immense 
popularity of ‘‘His Majesty the Baby.” 
Painted in the spring of 1898 and exhibited 
at various London galleries, it obtained 
remarkable evidences of approval. On one 
occasion a well-known City dealer placed the 
canvas in his window, and immediately a 
large crowd collected outside the establish¬ 
ment, stopping even the ordinary traffic with 
their appreciation of it. The engravings, too, 
which appeared soon after are now seen in 
almost every print-shop. At the time of 
writing one machine had been engaged for 
months upon their production, turning out 
its limit of thirty copies per day to keep pace 
with the demand. Hor is this surprising. 
True, Ave have only an everyday scene of 
AAYst End life, but Mr. Arthur Drummond 
with the artist’s genius has transfigured it 
into a bright vision of hajDpy childhood, 
triumphant even amidst the skirl and Avhirl 
of Piccadilly. The picture Avas happily 



MK. DRUMMOND’S STUDIO. 





582 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




LEWIS CARROLI/S BIOGRAl’IlHR, 
Photo hy Smith Alien, Tenby. 


its treat¬ 
ment that 
the painter 
lived some- 
where 
w i t h i n 
sound of 
Bow Bells, 
hut this is 
not the 
case. On 
the highest 
point of 
a w i d e - 
stretching 
com m 0 n 
three or 
four miles 
f r 0 m 
Ouil dford 

lie has found liis liome in an antiquated 
farmhouse named “ The Old Gables.” The 
singing of birds, the quack-quack of ducks, 
or "the sougliing of the Avind, SAveeping aAA’aj 
from the North Doavus over the gorse and 
stubbly grass, alone break the stillness of the 
artist’s retreat. Here Mr. Drummond does 
his Avork from ten till four—“ bank hours,” 
he says laughingly—and lives that life of 
retirement he loves so much Avith his Avife 
and their little girl. To knoAV Mrs. Drum¬ 
mond is to immediately recognise a frequent 
and charming model for her husband’s 
pictures. 

AYhen Mr. Drummond lays aside his brush 
he turns Avith evi¬ 
dent pleasure to 
the lathe. This 
Avork is his hobby¬ 
horse. In fact, he 
claims an exactness 
for engineering not 
possessed by ai‘t. 
Sometimes he 
thinks that he has 
done a good day’s 
AA^ork at the easel, 
but the morroAv’s 
sun reveals defects 
Avhich have to be 
rectified. “ Yet,” 
he adds consol¬ 
ingly, “ I suppose 
that if I Avere an 
engineer I should 


[Shawcross, Guildford. 


spend every half 
hour painting.” 
With pardonable 
pride the artist 


conceived and admirably treated. Its 
actuality strikes one instantly. A German 
lady told the dealers that she must take a 
print back to the Fatherland, as her friends 
othei’Avise Avould not believe that a police¬ 
man could stop the traffic by holding up his 
hand. 

The history of the picture is decidedly 
interesting. One day Mr. Drummond was 
Avalking Avith a friend through the London 
streets, Avhen they saAV the traffic stopped to 
alloAv a nurse and her perambulator to cross. 
His companion said to him, “ There’s a fine 
subject for a picture.” “ ITs,” replied the 
painter, “ Avithout the perambulator.” He 
set to Avork, but like all brilliant ideas this 
bristled Avith practical difficulties, and several 
attempts were made ere the artist felt satis¬ 
fied. He took thumb-nail sketches on the 
spot and carefully studied the minutije of 
the traffic. The perspective troubled him 
seriously, owing to the great disparity betAveen 
the size of the omnibus and the child, AA’hich, 
hoAvever, Avas the principal figure ; Imt with 
a certain amount of license he managed to 
meet the critics. AW the figures are from 
life. Mrs. Drummond and her little girl 
ride on one ’bus Avith an erstAvhile gardener 
as AA'hip, Avhilst a friend drives another vehicle 
and his Avife and daughter appear on. top. 
For the time being the local policeman 
assumes the glory of a London “ bobby,” 
and proud he is of his prominent position on 
the caiiA^as. 

One might suppose from the subject and 


Photo Injl 


MR. ARTHUR DRUMMOND AT WORK, 




ART AND LETTERS IN A SURREY TOWN, 




exhibits a toy crane, complete in every part, 
moved by steam and capable of lifting a 
child, which he designed and made. Only 
recently, too, he has joined his brother in 
the firm of Drummond Brothers, engineers, 
to work several patents registered by himself. 

The son of em artist, Mr. Arthur Drum¬ 
mond commenced his training in the studio 
of the late Mr. Edwin Long, R.A. Tlien 
he went to the Paris schools, and warmly 
extols the thoroughness with which the best 
French masters teach the technique of their 
art. Returning to England he became a 
pupil of Sir L. Alma-Tadema, of which 
fact he is especially proud. It was at the 
master’s suggestion that Mr. Drummond 
sought a house right away in the country, 
so that he could paint in the open air his 
Grecian subjects, in which he greatly 
delights. “ His Majesty the Baby ” started 
quite a different vein and instantly brought 
him golden fame, but even now he modestly 
tells his friends that it does not fulfil his 
idea of true art. Yet, after all, what is art, 
and who agrees in its definition ? The 
artist, however, wisely continues painting 
children, and in addition to the companion, 
“ The Queen’s Birthday,” contemplates a 
third, to be called “The King’s Courtship.” 
At the present time, too, he is engaged on a 
Iviiidred theme for a well-known Hay market 
firm and expects to be busy for a couple of 
years with commissions at present in hand. 
Still a young man, we may confidently hope 
that his best pictures have yet to be painted. 


Guildford possesses its romance in “ Ste¬ 
phan Langton,” written by Martin Tupper, 
Avhose works were so well known to an earlier 
generation. The plot deals with the days of 
King John, and its local scenes at Guildford 
Castle, St. Martha’s Chapel, and the Silent 
Pool are most graphically described. Tupper 
immensely popularised the lovely pond at 
Albury, to some extent effecting what the 
author of “ Lorna Doone ” did for Ex¬ 
moor. He collected his materials, read up 
the period, and wrote the novel in eight 
weeks—fairly rapid work for a book con¬ 
taining roughly 120,000 words. Since its 
first appearance in 1858, “ Stephan Langton ” 
has passed through several editions and still 
obtains a steady sale in the neighbourhood. 

Tupper “ touched the threshold of fame,” 
as he phrased it, by “ Proverbial Philosophy ” 
—a book which in its time attained a 're¬ 
markable circulation both here and in 
America. It was issued in many editions, 
and the guinea copies contained illustrations 
by some of the best artists and engravers of 
that day. Now, the honest homespun has 
gone out of date and “Proverbial Philo¬ 
sophy ” is seldom seen. Portions of the MS. 
were written at Albury House, the home of 
the author for forty years, where also “ The 
Rides and Reveries of ^sop Smith” first 
saw tlie light. Miss Tupper informs me 
that most of the contents of this book 
—fables, songs, essays, etc., embracing a 
variety of subjects—were thought out by 
her father while riding over the Surrey hills 
and dales. 

Like many other 
Englishmen, Mar¬ 
tin Tupper dreaded 
a French invasion 
in the early forties. 
We can smile now 
to think of the 
patriotic writer 
busying himself 
with a few friends 
in the formation 
of a village Rifle 
Club. This, too, 
against consider¬ 
able opposition. 
Kor did he confine 
his ardent loyalty 
to carrying arms, 
but wrote numer¬ 
ous well-known 
ballads on the sub¬ 
ject of defence, 
whicL may claim 



W HERE T. E W I S CARROLL DIED 
Photo by Mr. Stuart I). CoUingv'ood. 



584 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



Photo by'] 


THE GRAVE OF LEWIS CARROLL. 


to have fostered the idea of the Yolnnteer 
movement. 

To Albuiy House came troops of dis¬ 
tinguished friends to see Mr. Tnpper, 
amongst the number being Nathaniel Haw¬ 
thorne, the well-known American novelist, 
Jolin Leech, the artist, Mortimer Collins, 
Walter Severn, Edmund Yates, President 
Roberts and President Benson, both coloured 
men of Ihberia, in which colony their host 
took the greatest interest. Genially dis¬ 
posed, he lived on particularly good terms 
with the villagers, and though residing else- 
wliere when he died at the close of 1889, his 
remains were buried in Albury Churchyard. 

As this article has included a reference 
to a painter of children, it may fittingly close 
with a brief reference to the writer par 
(XcoUeace for small ])eople. 


The connection of Lewis 
Carroll” with the fine old 
country town was due to the 
fact that he settled his sisters 
there after his father’s death 
and the breaking up of the 
old family home. In conse¬ 
quence, he spent large por¬ 
tions of his Christmas and 
Easter vacations at Guildford, 
working industriously at ab¬ 
struse mathematical problems 
or his children’s books, for 
after the immense success of 
‘‘ Alice ” he generally had one 
in hand. Mr. Stuart D. Col- 
lingwood, the author of “ The 
Life and Letters of Lewis 
Carroll,” tells me that his 
uncle, when here, often de¬ 
voted the greater part of the 
day to writing, and hated to 
be disturbed even for meals. 
He would miss luncheon, con¬ 
tenting himself with meagre 
refreshment until dinner. In 
the evenings he used to stand 
in characteristic fashion, with 
his hands behind, explaining 
the latest mathematical prob¬ 
lem to his sisters, or describing 
to them his unique collection 
of photographs, made long 
before latter - day improve¬ 
ments. This includes not 
only some charming children, 
but also a large number of 
literary and other celebrities, 
whose portraits he always 
sought to obtain. 

All the diaries of the Rev. Charles Lut- 
widge Hodgson—but we shall never re¬ 
member him by that name—are now at 
Guildford. They make sixteen neat volumes 
filled with entries in his clear, methodical 
handwriting. The pages reveal their author’s 
true goodness and innate lovingkindness, and 
it is a pleasure to glance through them. 
Thus on October 15th, 1897, Ave read a 
typical instance of his desire to instruct and 
amuse children. 

“Went to Girls’ [National] School 9.15 
a.m. and had about 180 girls to talk to till 
ten. I did C. and T. and ‘Bruno.’ Then 
from ten till eleven I had about 100 girls 
and boys and masters and mistresses, and did 
various arithmetical puzzles, etc.” On July 
18th, 1875, he tells us that “the very last 
line, ‘for the Snark teas a Boojiun, you see,’ 


[Shaweross^ Guildford. 


ART AND LETTERS IN A SURREY TOWN. 


585 


came into my head while out on a walk at 
Gruildford.” Pathetic associations cling to 
the last entry he ever made. Here it is— 
the commencement of his journey to the 
“ Wonderland ” : “ December 23 (Th.). I 
start for Guildford by the 2.7 to-day.” A 
few days after Christmas his gentle spirit 
breathed its last, and mourned by countless 
admirers—in palace, in cottage, and in 
school—who, regardless of the Oxford don, 
knew only the creator of “Alice,” his re¬ 
mains were laid to rest in the beautiful 
graveyard on the Downs above Guildford. 

Across the bracing uplands he loved to 
roam. On Sundays after lunch he usually 
walked to Farnham—a ton miles’ tramp, 
affording lovely views of hill and dale 
stretching away for miles both to right and 
left. Like many other people, he said, 
“ Two’s company, three’s none,” to put it 
collocpiially, and seldom set out for a walk 
Avith more than one friend. Once, when in 
Guildford Avith a companion, he met an 
accjuaintance Avho said politely, “ May I 
join you, Mr. Dodgson, I am going your 
Avay ? ” “I think you had better not,” he 
replied, and passed on. The seeming dis¬ 
courtesy occurred to him the next day, and 
he immediately tried to make amends. To 


his great relief he found that his friend had 
treated the matter as a joke. In the deptli 
of winter Mr. Dodgson rarely wore an 
overcoat, but one alAvays expected to see 
his tall hat even in the height of summer ! 

In Surrey, as in ‘Oxford, LeAvis Carroll 
found child friends to AALom he wrote 
characteristic letters full of fun and nonsense 
or sound advice as to a vocation and course 
of studies. Ho trouble seemed too great on 
their behalf. He made them puzzles, gaA^e 
them presents of his books, or delighted to 
take them for pleasant excursions. On rare 
occasions, too, he preached at the parish 
church. He alAA^ays commenced Avith a 
story, in accord, one may imagine, AAuth his 
expressed sympathy for the little charity 
girl AA^ho said, “ I think AAdien I groAA^s up 
I’ll never go to church no more. I’se 
getting sermons enough to last me all my 
life.” 

Mr. Dodgson always proved a delightful 
companion and impressed his friends to a 
surprising degree. One aaLo kneAv him 
intimately has Avritten me, “ The picture of 
the man, his personality, every tone of voice 
and graceful affectation of diction, every 
trick of attitude seem burnt upon my memory 
—I shall never forget him.” 



TllK LAST PAGE OF LEWIS CAKKOLL’S DIARY. 











THE LINE OF FATE. 

By G. E. Mitton. 

Illustrated ly Frances Eican. 


ERTAINLY 
a share of 
psychic 
power was 
Sibyl Car¬ 
negie’s; that 
is to say, she 
«^ had a gift 
for crystal 
gazing and 
palmistry, 
and was, so 
her friends 
said, a per- 
^, feet witch in 

j/f foretelling 

the future. 
At all events 
she firmly 
believed in herself, which, after all, is the 
main thing, for then scoffers and sceptics 
may be reduced to the level of mere fools, 
and need trouble no one. 

She did not, however, look at all 
uncanny as she pedalled briskly along on 
a bicycle of the latest pattern one May 
evening. Her face was piquant ^ and 
interesting, her eyes deep-set and curiously 
bright, and a certain air of alertness and 
decision indicated a practical rather than a 
dreamy or sentimental character. Sibyl was 
going to stay for a week at a country house, 
and, having sent her luggage on before, had 
made her way independently by the aid of 
a map over ground she had never yet 
traversed. She had lost the map at the 
last hill, but as there was no possible 
alternative, she went steadily forward on 
the long, slightly sloping road which ran 
northward. On either side, at some distance, 
lay ranges of low, rounded hills, showing 
that the road really lay in the bottom of a 
broad valley. After some miles, dm-ing 
which nothing but cart tracks on either 
side had presented themselves for choice of 
route, a tolerably broad road curved in from 
the left side, and ran diagonally across that 
she was on, trending in a north-easterly 
direction. 

Sibyl leaped off at the corner and 



hesitated. She was puzzled by a strange 
feeling of foreknowledge, which grew stronger 
every instant. She had never been in 
this district before, yet she knew the turn 
of the way exactly—it all corresponded with 
a mental picture she had formed of it. She 
stood there, nervously handling her machine, 
a prey to extreme disquietude. She felt as 
if she were in dreamland, and that a rude 
shock might awaken her. The uneasiness 
she experienced seemed hardly warranted by 
the circumstances. 

After a few minutes she attempted to 
throw off her depression by convincing 
herself that the contour of the country must 
resemble some place with which she was 
familiar. Yet she was unable to resist the 
temptation to predict the way lying before 
her. 

‘‘ The road I am on turns a little, running 
sharply down now,” she said to herself, 
“ until, some way tether on, it is crossed 
at right angles by a great main road. I 
wonder if I am right! Well, at all events, 
there is no reason why I should walk instead 
of riding, for I must be rather late already.” 

Yet it required some courage to mount 
once more upon the machine and continue 
to follow the road on which she had so far 
come. 

She had hardly gone a mile before she 
jumped off again. “ Oh, I am silly, silly, 
silly! ” she said. “ I am as nervous as a 
child. I know there is something waiting 
for me round the corner. I don’t know 
what it is ; but it’s dreadful and upsetting. 
I can’t ride past—shall I walk ? ” 

Her hands were trembling so much that 
she decided on the latter course, and folio\yed 
the windings of the road with a beating 
heart. A voice from the hedge made her 
jump perceptibly, for her nerves were on the 
tip-toe of expectation. 

It was a man’s voice, courteous and refined, 
and certainly there was nothing in it to alarm 
anyone. 

“ I beg your pardon. T wonder if you 
will help me,” it said. “ I have had a nasty 
spill and can’t get up.” 

The speaker was a young man in a tweed 


586 






THE LINE OF FATE. 


587 



“ ‘ I will ride on and get the Rnddarts to send a conveyance for you,’ she said.” 


suit, wlio lay wedi»-o(l clown into a dry ditch 
by tlie roadside. A bicycle with the handle¬ 
bar broken off short showed tlie cause of the 
accident. As the man attempted to move, 
thl)yl saw that he was long-limbed, rather 
gaunt, and sqnare-shonldered. PI is freckled 
face had an engaging expression of frankness. 
If this were all one had to fear- 

She stopped promptly. 

“ Handle-bar broken ? Where are von 
liiirt ? ” 

“ I was going rather a pace,” be said. 
“ I didn’t know wliat had happened until T 
turned a back somersault into this ditcli. I 
])elieve my shoulder is out.” 

“ Ha\'e you been here long ? And how 
can I lielp yon ? ” 

“ I’ve only been here about a quarter of 


an hour. I daresay I could lun'e got out 
eventually, but I’m so awkwardly placed. 

If you would give me a hand-” 

She propped up her mad line and went to 
his assistance. With the help of lier hand 
he raised himself slowly to a sitting posture. 
She could see from the contraction of his 
face liow much he Avas suffering. 

There ! ” lie said. “ Noav if I can get 
on to my feet, I may make shift to Avalk.” 

‘‘ I sup])ose,” she said AAuth blanched li])s, 
“I couldn’t pull your shoulder in again ? ” 
lie smiled. “ 1 don’t suppose you could ; 
but you may try, if you like.” 

“ Oh, no, I don’t Avant to ; only I can’t 
leave you here. Have you far to go ? ” 

“I Avas on my way to llailiam, to stay Avith 
the lluddarts—perhaps you know them ? ” 
















588 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


She made an exclamation of surprise ; and 
the memory of the mystery, which this 
incident had obliterated, came back to her. 

“That is my destination, too,” she said. 
“ I might have known we should meet 
again.” She had not meant to say the last 
words aloud ; and he looked at her with a 
whimsically curious expression. She recovered 
herself and laughed, blushing a little. The 
sentence might bear an all too flattering 
interpretation. 

“ I will ride on—it can’t be very many 
miles now—and will get the Ruddarts to 
send a conveyance for you,” she said. 

“ Do you know your way ? ” 

She admitted ignorance. 

“It is tolerably straight, and there arc 
guide-posts. Just beyond here a great main 
road crosses this ; don’t be misled into 
following that.” 

She started. Here again was conflrmation 
of her foreknowledge. She listened to his 
detailed directions with the sense of mystery 
deepened. 

:»s ❖ 

“ Cecil Desart ? Well, he must be getting 
on for thirty now ; but though he’s been 
over half the world by himself, he has never 
lost that raw, boyish look. Poor fellow, how 
white he was when he came in ! I believe 
a shoulder out is far greater agony than a 
worse injury. However, I insisted on his 
going to bed at once when it had been put 
right, and no doubt he’ll feel quite well in 
the morning.” 

Mrs. Ruddart was the kindest of hostesses, 
and had been terribly distressed at the mis¬ 
hap which had occurred to one of her guests 
on his way to her house. In the absence of 
Cecil himself, Sibyl came in for a kind of 
reflected heroineship, and was made to 
repeat the incident many times to the large 
party of guests in the drawing-room after 
dinner. She was, however, rather worried 
and distrait, and did not mention the 
circumstance which chiefly occupied her 
thoughts. 

“ Mr. Ruddart,” she said to her host when 
he sat down beside her, “ you know the road 
which crosses the one on which I found 
Mr. Desart, diagonally, below the main road 
—wliere does that lead to ? ” 

He mentioned some town. “ Yet,” he 
added, “it is really only a connection. 
About a mile beyond where you crossed it 
it runs into a considerably more important 
road, one that is roughly parallel to that on 
which you came.” 

“And that,” said Sibyl with conviction. 


“ curves away round the base of that hill on 
the east. Oh, I know all about it.” 

“You appear to,” he answered, smiling. 
“ Have you-? ” 

“Miss Carnegie,” said Mrs. Hayes, an 
absolutely selflsh little woman with an 
adoring husband, “ I hear you tell fortunes 
by palmistry. I wish you’d tell mine.” 

“ Miss Carnegie is tired,” interposed Mrs. 
Ruddart. 

But Sibyl interrupted her. “Ho, no,” 
she said. “ I like it; I really do.” 

But as she made Mrs. Hayes open out her 
hand flat in the broad circle of lamplight a 
sudden idea struck her with such force and 
intensity that for a moment she forgot every¬ 
thing in the present. She glanced down at 
her own right hand and nearly laughed 
aloud. There, like a map before her, lay 
the roads she had that day traversed. The 
hill up which she had ascended to the base 
of her line of fate, the trend of the line, 
crossed by the lines of head and heart, and 
there, just before the line of heart, which 
represented the broad main road, a curious 
cross betokening the advent of some new 
element into her life, a change of circum¬ 
stances, an unexpected event. Here she had 
found Cecil Desart. 

A great wonder, a sudden sense of awe 
seized her; she was out of her depth, 
swimming in regions too deep for her. She 
controlled herseK Avith a great effort, and 
completed the survey of the little, helpless, 
flabby, pink hand which lay awaiting her 
scrutiny. 

It is an indisputable fact that the trained 
self-control of the upper classes of society is 
not always proof against the offer of incense 
at the shrine of the Ego. The women who 
were staying in the house Avith Miss Carnegie 
pushed mentally, if not physically, to ensure 
her knowledge of palmistry and future fore¬ 
telling for themselves; and if the men, 
fortified by hereditary instinct against 
“ pushing ” AAdiere AAmmen Avere concerned, 
did not actually mob her, yet each seized 
any opportunity for a tke-a-tetfi to intimate 
that he was quite peculiar and different from 
all other men, and that his hand AA-ould AA^ell 
repay a palmist’s study. 

Mr. Ruddart and Cecil Desart alone ignored 
the fascinating subject, the former by virtue 
of his position as host, Avhich forbade his 
troubling a guest, the latter because he Avas 
an open sceptic on this and kindred matters. 

The days of the AA’eek ran out quickly 
enough, ev^ery hour Avith its amusement or 
expedition ; yet not once did the expedition 








590 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


take the direction of the road by which 
Sibyl Carnegie had come. She had not 
mentioned to any of her fellow-guests her 
strange presentiment. She felt that there 
was something too sacred about it. The only 
person in Avhom she felt it would have been 
possible to confide was the one sceptic. 
Several times it had been her intention to 
tell him, but each time she had changed her 
mind. 

Persons staying in the same house rapidly 
become intimate. They meet and part as 
many times in a day as neighbours do in a 
week, and each time the intimacy has pro¬ 
gressed. Thus Sibyl would have felt no 
difficulty in her confidence, but that it too 
prominently linked the idea of herself and 
Cecil together. He attracted her by his 
frank sincerity, his robust manliness, and a 
little also by his undeniable obstinacy. He 
was like a fresh breeze with his healthy 
optimism, his disdain of subterfuge. As 
Mrs. Ruddart frecpiently remarked, “ One 
feels one knows him through and through ; 
there are no back doors about him.” 

How, though above all things a man loves 
in a woman mystery and subtlety, so that 
these attractions more than counterbalance 
the disadvantages of hypocrisy and incon¬ 
sistency, yet a woman loves to feel that a 
man’s life lies open to her, that she can 
trust him for transparent honesty ; so Cecil 
Desart was extremely populai* among the 
girls and v'onien who were his fellow-guests. 

The respect and liking which the women 
had for liim were fully shared by Sibyl, 
though she was not the least bit in love with 
him. She thought of him as in some sense 
too young for her, too raw and boyish. Yet 
she also was interested in him, because she 
believed firmly in her future prognostica¬ 
tion, and therefore that his life, in some 
strange Avay, was to influence and alter her 
own. 

It was the evening before the final break¬ 
up of the house party, and the day had been 
fine and fairly warm. After dinner coffee 
was brought out on to the terrace before the 
house, and the ladies wandered off in twos 
and threes into the dimness of the tree- 
shaded drive or over the smooth-shaven turf 
of the lawns. Sibyl Carnegie was by herself. 
She had made up her mind, partly in a 
spirit of mischievous coquetry, to tell Cecil 
Desart of the position he had occupied on 
her line of fate—that is to say, if she had 
the chance. She might, of course, not see 
liirn again alone. But when the men 
stepped out from the low, long windows on 


to tlie lawn, she knew almost at once that 
her wish was to be gratified, for Cecil instantly 
made his way to her. 

^ “ You said you had never heard the 
nightingale sing,” he said in his direct way. 
“Comedown to the copse now. He ought 
to be in tune to-night, as it is so much 
warmer.” 

She assented, and they wandered down the 
sloping field to the copse in the hollow where 
the stream ran. 

In the copse it was very still, a stillness on 
which minor sounds lay lightly, emphasising 
contrast rather than breaking silence. 

The couple stood on the narrow path 
among the young ash saplings, hardly higher 
tlian their heads. The ghostly light of m 
fidl moon, blurred by a misty veil of cloud, 
shone weirdly. Tiny white moths flitted by 
in evening liveliness, and occasionally the 
heavy hum of a cockchafer or belated bee 
thrilled warmly on the air. Tlie nightingale 
was singing fitfully a couple of fields away, 
and his shriller, clearer note was now and 
then drowned by the impudent musical joy 
of a happy thrush. All Sibyl’s psycliic 
power seemed to rise and glow within her as 
she stood there, hardly breathing, behind 
Cecil, who lightly held the boughs apart. An 
access of feeling that was half pleasure, half 
pain, drowned her. She was near something 
which all her life she had longed for, and 
yet she was separated from it by an unfathom¬ 
able chasm. She looked at Cecil’s broad 
back, outlined before her, and with her 
disturbing analytic temperament at work 
sought the source of her sensation. Did he 
care for her ? Was that the reason ? He 
had certtdnly not told her so by word or 
deed, or by any of those nameless signs by 
which tlie heart of woman reads the heart of 
man. Had he even the power of caring 
greatly? 

“ It is weird and unearthly here,” she said 
gently. “ Even you must now for a time 
cease to scoff at things mysterious yet near.” 

He turned sharply, looking down upon 
her, his face rather white in the gleaming 
light of the moon. 

“ I don’t scoff impertinently, I hope,” he 
said. “ Let people believe such things if 
they like. For me, I have found life fact, 
not fiction ; material, not sentiiiiental.” 

AYitli one accord they walked on in silence, 
winding up by the slippery path. Sibyl 
intentionally tripped a little, and the result 
was as she had anticipated. 

“ It is rather steep here,” he said, half 
turning. “ Give me your hand.” 


THE LTNE OF FATE. 


591 



“ There was nothing for it but to sit straight and 
might end.” 

His cool, strong fingers closed on lier warm, 
firm hand, and they walked np together. They 
passed a small pond which looked stagnant 
with the sciini and weed on its surface, nntil 
they reached a strong fence with a gate that 
would not open, and there they came to a 
standstill. 

“ Help me,” said Sibyl, and then, without 
waiting for his aid, she perched herself on 
the fence, leaning back against the gatepost. 

“ It is very provoking,” she said slowly, 

“ that you of all people should not believe in 


my prophecies, for you are 
personally concerned.” 

“I ? ” he said, and waited. 
Perhaps he wondered if this 
were merely one of the 
attempts at an ordinary 
flirtation of which he had 
many times been the subject; 
but apparently he decided 
not, for he added more 
softly, “ Please tell me how.” 

So she told him, with the 
tone of an enthusiast, little 
knowing how her deep-set 
eyes and winning voice set 
off the narrative. 

‘‘ This is deeply interest¬ 
ing,” he said when she 
stopped speaking, and he 
leaned on the fence beside 
her, so that their faces Avere 
on a level. 

“ Still yon do not be¬ 
lieve ? ” 

.“Yon can’t expect to 
make a convert by one 
statement, especially if it 
may be due to coincidence ! ” 
She was silent. 

“ The roads, 1 admit,” lie 
said thoughtfully, “ are 
roughly like the lines on 
anyone’s band.” 

“ I will tell you further,” 
she went on eagerly. “ On 
my line of life there is a 
break foretelling a serious 
accident. I have meant for 
the past week to ride down 
the road which corresponds, 
to see if that accident takes 
place, but I luun had no 
opportunity. 1 do not leave 
here to-morrow until niid- 
i)niy the hill day ; I shall get up early 

and go there.” 

“ I shall go with you.” 
She answered nothing, but he Avas near 
enough to see, even in that dim light, 
the mntinons twinkle that SAvept over her 
face. 

“You mean you Avill give me the slip ? 
Very Avell, then, I shall patrol the road from 
daybreak to midday.” 

“ Really ! Why, I thought you didn’t 
believe in this nonsense.” 

“ T believe so far that yon, Avith your 
highly strung temperament, might create an 
accident at that spot.” 


592 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


“ But, really, my life is my own; wliat does 
it matter to anyone ? ” 

He laid his hand over the two that were 
on her lap. 

“ It matters to me,” he said. Yet he 
infused no love-tenderness into his tone, he 
drew no nearer by a hairbreadth. 

A tumultuous gladness of feeling surged 
over Sibyl. It was not the least like being 
in love—as she had pictured it—only she 
was so wildly happy, she wanted to sing at 
the top of her voice like the nightingale— 
no, the fat thrush ; there was a plaintive 
note in the nightingale’s tune with which 
she had no patience. Cecil was so very nice. 
She did not withdraw her hands. Neither 
did he move, but ho said no moi’e. So 
presently in an impulsive moment she turned 
over the hand that lay on hers and placed it 
palm upwards. 

“ I would like to tell your fortune,” she 
said gaily. 

“ I know I am safe ; you can only see the 
hand itself dimly, and no lines.” 

“ Have you never had the future told ? ” 

“ I never have, and never will have it 
told,” he said. 

“ But if you don’t believe in it, it can’t 
affect you.” 

He did not answer. 

“ Please, Mr. Desart, have you any 
matches ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ AYill you give them to me ? ” 

He laughed. 

“ If you were wise you might make a 
bargain : you might make me promise not 
to ride down the line of life on condition 
you allow me to tell your palm.” 

“ It is dangerous to make bargains with 
women. I never do so.” 

“ But you might be very, very generous, 
and give a woman what she wants with no 
Ijargain.” 

“ It is possible.” 

“ Mr. Desart, where are the matches ? ” 

He found a box of wax vestas with his 
left hand—she was still holding the right— 
and passed them to her silently. Slie struck 
one and bent closely over the palms, whicli 
he allowed to rest on her knee. She looked 
triumphantly sibylline in the glow of the 
flickering match, with the little fluttering 
moths, attracted by the light, dancing round 
her soft, dark head. The match burned 
itself out and she dropped it with a little cry. 

“ Did you burn your fingers ? ” he asked. 

“ Not in the sense you mean,” she said a 
little tremulously. 


He struck another match himself and 
held it over his own hand. She looked 
again, eagerly, and then her eyes met his 
with a wistful expression. For a moment 
the two—man and girl—gazed straight at 
one another across the little flame, as if they 
would read each other’s very soul. Then he 
moved uneasily. 

‘‘ Well,” he said, with an attempt to be as 
careless as usual, “ tell me the worst.” 

“ I make no bargains—I ask no (piestions,” 
she said, and her hand clutched his coat- 
sleeve convulsively; “but”—with a feminine 
afterthought—“ I trust you to tell me if I 
am right—you are married already ! ” 

There was an instant’s silence, full of 
meaning, of deepest feeling, for both ; then 
he answered doggedly, “ It is quite true.” 

She sat still ; the shaft had sped. It was 
in truth no more than an entanglement she 
liad noted in the hand. The rest was telepatliy 
—a flash of thought-transmission; but it had 
served its purpose equally. 

The night had grown suddenly chill. It 
occurred to her that the distant voices on 
the lawn above were stilled. She sprang 
down from her perch and he followed. 

“ Miss Carnegie,” he said, “ I own your 
power. I am your captive.” 

She answered nothing. She was filled 
with a bitter anger, as if he had wronged her. 

“ No one—that is, of course, speaking 
practically—no one knows of my marriage,” 
he continued. “ My wife is not an English 
woman. I have not seen her for six years.” 

“ I want to know nothing,” said Sibyl. 

“ Yet now I want to ask you one thing, 
just one, before we part: will you give up 
this mad idea of riding down that road 
to-morrow ? ” 

She laughed bitterly. “AYhy should I 
not do as I please ? It matters to no one.” 

In the face of the revelation just made, 
how could he again assert it mattered to 
him ? He found it impossible, and they 
parted without another word. 

All through the short night that followed 
Sibyl’s imagination ran riot. She conld 
hardly herself separate hideous nightmare 
dreams from half-waking conjectures. She 
pictured Cecil’s wife as a native of every 
clime under the sun, from the dusky beauties 
of the South Seas to the almond-eyed 
daughters of Japan. Why had he so 
entangled himself ? Was it in a wild fit of 
passion, or by connivance of others ? Either 
supposition was equally untenable, seeing that 
he was what he was—resolute, clear-headed, 
and evenly balanced. 


THE LINE OF FATE. 


598 


Again, no oae knew of it; and lie had 
not seen his wife for six years. The fact of 
secrecy and suppression was impossible to 
connect with this sincere, frank young man. 
It was but one more instance of J^ature’s 
incredibler freakishness—Nature A\dio wraps 
up streaks and strata of eccentricity in the 
most unlikely places. 

The wife must have disgraced herself soon 
after the union, or he avouIcI never have feared 
to own his action. Had she gone mad, as of 
old did Mrs. Eochester, or committed some 


and painful. The morning was fresh and 
cold, with a white mist hanging over the 
fields. She met but feAv people about, and 
no vehicles except a cart and a furniture 
removal van. 

She crossed the line of heart, and bit her 
lip Avith sudden throb as she came to the 
place where she had found Cecil. The line 
of head diverted her course, and she folloAved 
it to the spot where the line of life forked 
from it. The latter was a broad road of 
tolerable descent cut in the side of the hill. 



“ Uending over her wjis a gipsy face.” 


crime for AAdiicli the law of her own land 
had incarcerated her ? The latter might l)e 
the solution. So, tossing and turning in the 
clutch of a mental kaleidoscope, Sibyl lay 
until the grey dawn of the morning. 

About seA^eii o’clock she got up and dressed; 
then, creeping downstairs to the lumber- 
room, possessed herself of her bicycle and 
set forth on the high road to destiny. 

Her spirits Aveighed like lead. She AA-as 
aching Avith a sense of Avrong, of personal 
injury ; her inner consciousness Avas bruised 


and it had a notice-board of “ Warning to 
Cyclists ” at its summit. At this Sibyl nodded 
“ Cood morning ” Avith a defiant smile. She 
Avas reckless — nothing mattered — no one 
cared. Other people Avrecked their lives, and 
no one said them nay. Why should not she ? 

HoAvever, she kept her feet on the pedals, 
AAdiile the slope gi’CAV steeper and steeper. 
It Avas a very long hill, and she had time to 
think of many things, but through them all 
there ran an uneasy conjecture as to Cecil’s 
Avife. 

2 s 


5D4 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


As the hill grew steeper she had to back 
pedal more vigorously, rising in her saddle 
and almost standing on the pedals ; but she 
disdained to use her brake. The hill curved 
round, so she could not see very far ahead, 
and round the long curve she ran for a mile 
or more. Suddenly there was a crack and 
whirr—the chain had snapped. The pedals 
buzzed round without restraint, and she had 
lost control of the machine. She was flying 
onward with terrific impetus down the 
smooth road, with the impending fear of a 
horrible accident, A\diicli grew every moment 
greater, stiffening her ner\'es and paralysing 
her energies. Instinctively she pnt her feet 
on the rests and clapped her hand to the 
brake. It would not act ! It was stiff in 
the socket, or the spring had given way. 
There was nothing for it but to sit straight 
and pray the hill might end. 

Now that fancy had turned to reality, and 
forecast become fact, the agonised antici¬ 
pation of physical suffering brought the 
perspiration on her brow, and her heart 
turned to water. At any other time she 
would have cared nothing for the adventure ; 
there was not likely to be an impediment in 
the way of traffic. She had only to keep her 
head and steer ; but it was the gradual 
fulfilment of her own prophecy that be¬ 
numbed her, turning her bones to water. 

She swept on swiftly, the wheels flying, 
her face blanched. Round a curve she saw 
ahead, at the steepest part of the hill, a 
gipsy caravan drawn right across the road. 
As she swept down to her destruction, she 
instinctively sounded the bell ; but vacancy 
was before her ; already she felt the terrors 
of that awful collision. 


In reality, it was only a few seconds from 
the time she first sighted the monster in her 
path to the time she reached it; but in that 
interval a man sprang from the hedge, and 
seizing the lumbering horse’s bridle, forced 
it and the caravan back into the ditch. The 
animal, terrified by the unexpected onslaught, 
reared, the man slipped, lost his footing, and 
went down beneath its great iron-shod hoofs; 
but in the few yards’ space he had cleared 
by his action the whirlwind of girl and 
bicycle swept past in safety. 

Sibyl saw it all as in a hideous nightmare— 
his square shoulders, his great hands tugging 
at the bridle, his set face, and she knew avIio 
it was. Then the vacancy which had been 
struggling for possession seethed over her— 
an instant of unconsciousness—an instant of 
recovery in a grinding crash—then once 
more merciful unconsciousness. 

She awoke with the sensation of wrestling 
with the nightmare in her room, and bending 
over her was a gipsy face, in a setting of 
coarse, black hair—a repulsive, wicked face, 
with eyes of coal; and Sibyl stirred feebly 
at this incarnation of all that was most 
terrible in her visions of Cecil’s wife. 

But gradually, as she realised the woman 
was flesh and blood and no creature of a 
dream, she roused herself, and recollection 
came to her. Then she cried wildly to know 
\Ndiat had happened to Cecil. 

“ The gentleman is dead,” said the woman 
bluntly. “The horse kicked him on the 
head. It was his own fault; we had nought 
to do wi’ it.” 

In that instant Sibyl knew that she had 
loved him ; and the whole future lay before 
her, a wilderness of remorse and self-pity. 





THE 

EDITOR’S 

SCRAP-BOOK. 


Mother : Was Auntie glad as well as 
surprised to see you and Tommy, and 
Freddie, and Frank ? 

Jack : Bather! She said why hadn’t 
we brought you, and father, and Jane, 
and the dog, and the oat, and the fowls, 
too ? 


She: Father says he wouldn’t think 
of giving his consent to our marriage. 

He: AVhy not? Just think of the 
money he has borrowed of me. 

She : That’s it. He says you’ve no 
more to lend. 


OVER-DEVELOPED. 

By Wilfrid Klickmann, 

Messrs. Snap, Schott, and Shutter, 
the makers of the Quick-Firing Gatling 
Cameras, were advertising for a gentle¬ 
man to fill the position of Chief Operator. 

There was nothing suspicious about the 
advertisement, and its straightforward, 
almost pleading tone prepossessed me— 

Required, a capable photographic operator, 
to undertake sole charge of Dark Room and 
Developing Branch of our business. A 
permanency. An opportunity for life. Liberal salary. 
Apply to Snap, Schott, and Shutter, etc. 

The “ liberal salary ” seemed to promise well, 
likewise the permanent opportunity for life. As 
regarded my own suitability for the post, I had 
no misgivings. Photography held no unsolved 
mysteries for me, while in algebraic formula3 
connected with diaphragms, angles, and foci of 
lenses I was quite at home. Further, Messrs. 
Snap, Schott, and Shutter were an eminent firm, 
and their particular make of apparatus was pro¬ 
bably the most terrible with which the amateur 
photograj)hic fiend could arm himself. 

It was called a “ hand camera,” implying that it 
could be carried in the hand, and to distinguish it 
from that variety which entails the attendance of 
a strong porter for locomotion. You surely know 
them? Have you never seen the advertise¬ 
ments ?— 

Photography is so simple 
that anyone can learn it. 

Another reads— 

When the Quick-Firing Gatling is loaded, 
pull the trigger and send us the spent shot. 

Thousands of persons, who are absolutely 



FORCE OF HABIT : SUNDAY MORNING IN THE SUBURBS. 


ignorant of the chemical transformation required 
to produce a photograph, are now able, through 
the instrumentality of Snap, Schott, and Shutter, 
to write themselves “ amateur photographers.’’ 
The professional may scoff at the assumption ot 
an unearned title; but if adding to the innocent 
happiness of the human race is laying another 
stone to the foundations of the millennium, then 
the makers of the Quick-Firing Gatling have done 
a good work. There is no difficulty whatever. A 
dozen rounds are “ fired,” the bandolier (so to 
speak) is withdrawn and sent to Snap, Schott, and 
Shutter, with a trifling fee. The firm do the 
developing, and print as many copies as are 
ordered by the “ photographers.” The latter then 
have the delight of exhibiting to their triends 
(with an assumed carelessness) the choicest of 
their efforts. 

“These ai-e a few little things I snapped the 
other day,” one will remark, with the modest, 
deprecating air of a Selous producing a recent bag 
from Somaliland. “ That’s the Duke of Buccleuch 
arguing with a cabby, and here’s Mr. Labouchere 
eating a sandwich at Euston. I’m told it’s quite 
unique in its way; my friends rave about it.” ^ 

This mode is avoided by those whose wish it is 


595 


t/V 






THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


r)!)(; 



QUITE BUSINESS-LIKE. 

Precocious Youngster : And did it take you long to persuade Sis to say “Yes”? 

Her Future Brother-in-Law : Not very long. My cyclometer only registered about eight hundred miles. 


to be identified with a cult, fi'o these the only 
permissible definition of a photograph is “A 
study.” This all-embracing term is useful, for a 
smudge can be labelled at will “ Moonlight Study 
in Late Autumn,” “ Storm on the Serpentine, after 
Turner,” or “ Chiysantlieme—an Impression.” 


For criticism a non-committing “ Quite so ” is all 
that is necessary. 

I dropped Messrs. Snap, Schott, and Shutter a 
line, and begged to be favoured with the name 
and address of the o]3erator lately holding the post. 
By return the following reached me— 


















THE EDITORS SCRAP-BOOK. 


597 



“Dear Sir,—I n an¬ 
swer to your courteous 
note, we regret to inform 
you that the gentleman 
to whom you allude is 
(lead. 

“ Yours truly, 

“ Snap, Schott, and 
Shutter.” 

“P.S.—We trust to 
receive shortly your 
application for the posi¬ 
tion.” 

• It was disconcerting 
to be unable to ascer¬ 
tain how he had liked 
the work. I tried again, 
and asked for the ad¬ 
dress of liis predecessor 
in office. To my sur¬ 
prise I learned that 
this gentleman was at 
present in charge of 
his medical attendant at 
a private asylum. A 
postscript to this second 
letter informed me that 
S. S. & S. would await 
my application before 
coming to a decision. 

As the firm were meet¬ 
ing me more than half 
way, I did not wish to 
appear too exacting, and 
accordingly accepted the 
post. 

My arrival created 
somewhat of a sensa¬ 
tion. The interest I 
excited was distinctly 
flattering to a modest 
man. Some of the clerks 
seemed to regard me in 
a strange manner, and 1 
could have vowed there 
was a look almost akin 
to pity in the eyes of 
the lady typist. The 
manager was the excep¬ 
tion; he beamed cordi¬ 
ally, and even asked 
in an anxious voice if I 
had any family. He 
appeared greatly relieved 
at my negative reply. 

Had the firm been manu¬ 
facturers of lyddite he could not have been more 
solicitous. 

Knowing the harmlessness of the task before 
me, with a light heart I commenced work on 
innumerable little piles of glass plates. 

I began with a batch of a dozen plates, which 
the sender, by his letter, declared to be of excep¬ 
tional interest. The first six plates were negatives, 
but not in the generally accepted sense of the 
word. By no stretch of imagination could the eye 
of faith detect the slightest trace of any picture, 


A xaturau dedcction. 

Guide (referring to Egyptian Pyramicls) : It took lumdrecls of years to build them. 
O’BiiiEX (the wealthy contractor): Thin it wor a Gover’mint job, eh? 

and mopping my brow I wondered whether the 
photographer had despatched, me a box of un¬ 
exposed plates. Number seven was like its 
predecessors, and so was the next and the next. 
The mistake was obvious. The man had sent me 
a dozen new ])lates in error. A few minutes would 
suffice to finish off the remainder. ^ A shock 
awaited me with the last of all. Gazing darkly 
into the developing dish, signs of great distress 
were quickly manifest in the film. I dashed it 
into clean water. Proceedingly cautiously with a 


598 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


weak solution, a faint image of St. Paul’s Cathedral 
became apparent, considerably obscured by the 
masts of ships, and flanked with the two towers oT 
the Crystal Palace. Beads of perspiration kej>t 
my forehead cool as further incongruities became 
evident. A phantom chariot and six horses 
suggested Lord Mayor’s Day, and an indescribable 
jumble of British Museum, the Tower Bridge, and 
Nelson’s Monument darkened the whole. It was, 
indeed, an interesting set of pictures, marred by 
the fact that all had been taken on one and the 
same negative. 

The operator 
had diligentl}^ 

“pulled the 
trigger” a 
dozen times, 
but had not 
thought it 
necessary to 
change his 
plate. 

I tried a new 
lot, but with 
no better re¬ 
sult. Amateur 
photographers 
evidently be¬ 
lieve the age of 
miracles has 
not passed.. 

They will hold 
a camera in an 
impossible po¬ 
sition before an 
object, and 
with simple 
faith look for¬ 
ward to a per¬ 
fect photo¬ 
graph. You 
can’t get a 
really distinct 
and detailed 
picture of the 
Mediterranean 
Squadron off 
Gibraltar, in¬ 
cluding the 
Kock, on a plate 
the size of a 
lady’s visiting- 
card, and 
famil}^ por¬ 
traits taken in 
a badly lighted 
room, instantaneously, at a distance of a foot and 
a half from the sitter, are not flattering. 

It seemed unfortunate that I should have begun 
on so many failures, but I looked for better luck 
on the morrow. Alas! it was a forlorn hope, and 
the second day closed in gloom. 

During the third and fourth days I tackled the 
task, grimly determined to bear up and earn 
my “liberal salary.” Personal feelings should 
not be allowed to intrude into one’s business 
occupations, I argued. The instructions from the 


respective senders of the pi ites I read with avidity. 
Each fresh letter was like the arrival in the prison 
cell of a warder—welcome, even if accompanied by 
a task. Saturday dawned, and catching sight of 
my face in the mirror while shaving, I started at 
my haggard look. How I had aged! An 
indomitable spirit, however, urged me to go to the 
“ studio,” and I ignored the anxious faces of the 
staff. I felt ready to forfeit a week’s salary if only 
one of the plates showed signs of developing into 
something. The tension was not relieved when I 

found a note a 
month old, left 
by my jiredc- 
cessor in office, 
intimating his 
intention of 
committin g 
suicide. The 
cheery man¬ 
ager shook my 
hand each day, 
surreptitiously 
feeling my 
pulse the while. 
The hope that 
springs eter¬ 
nally in the 
human breast 
received a 
slight encour¬ 
agement a few 
days later. 
Slowly devel¬ 
oping before 
my eyes, and 
distantly visi¬ 
ble, was a scene 
of a busy quay 
— a steamer, 
gangways, and 
troops hurrying 
on board. It 
was a beautiful 
little negative, 
and while I laid 
it aside to soak 
I acknow¬ 
ledged humbly 
to myself how 
a small thing 
may perchance 
jDreserve the 
balance of an 
intellect. Other 
pictures fol¬ 
lowed, all good in their way. My excitement 
knew no bounds, for the relief was great. Instead 
of filling up one of Messrs. Snap, Schott, and 
Shutter’s usual forms, “ We regret to inform you 
that there have been — failures in the parcel of 
plates forwarded to us for development,” I wrote 
a special note congratulating the photographer. 

Two days afterwards the prints were returned 
with a letter worded in stronger terms than the 
circumstances seemed to warrant. It was from 
the Chairman of the “ Auti-Friction-Pence-at- 



THE HORSE SUPPLY. 

“ Now, yoH shall ’ave ’im for fifty shillings—and not a copper less ! 
’Osses ’as riz since the war, you know.” 





^0 Bll ‘lilUboin it /ibai? Concent 



600 


THE ^¥INDSOR MAGAZINE, 



any-Price Conciliation Committee,” to 
whom I had in error sent the proofs. He 
demanded his proper negatives (whatever 
they were, they were failures), and insisted 
that I had sent him the war pictures to 
annoy him, and with malice aforethought. 
It was merely a slip on my part, and one 
quite excusable when my excited feelings 
were taken into account. But Fate was 
evidently against me. A gentleman named 
Robinson had obtained an excellent snap¬ 
shot of the prize porker at the Agricultural 
Hall, and another amateur photographer 
of the same name had also sent plates to 
he developed. Will it be believed, a 
similar mistake occurred again, and the 
picture of the quadruped with the rotundity 
of a balloon came into the possession of 
Mr. Robinson, the well-known vegetarian 
advocate ? The latter, when pointing out 
my mistake, took the 02 ')portunity of 
enclosing a couple of tracts on the vicious¬ 
ness of carnivorous diet verm?, the spiritu¬ 
ality of bean-feasts. 

The manager must have noticed m}^ 
altered appearance, for he would look the 
other way if I approached him. He assured 
me I need not be alarmed at the whiteness 
of my hair, it was merely the effect of the 
dark-room. He added that it would go 
off after a time. It did—in fact, it dropped 
off. 

There is no need to linger over the 
remaining brief period during which I 
stayed in the employ of Messrs. Snap, 
Schott, and Shutter. In three months I 
had aged to second childhood, and my 
bald head confirmed the idea. The tension 
had undermined my constitution. The 
doctors thought that my complaint might 
possibly be amenable to the open-air treat¬ 
ment. After consultation, the firm were 
good enough to equip me with a second¬ 
hand itinerant photographer’s kit mounted 
on a perambulator. My business-card 
explains my present whereabouts— 


TRUNDLER & Co., 

ARTISTS IN PHOTOGRAPHY AND 
MAKERS OF PORTRAITS. 

Miniatures Prepared and Hand¬ 
somely Framed while you wait. 
Price Sixpence. 

STUDIO :—On the Sands (next the Whelk 
Stall) IMAKGATE. 


“ I suppose the proprietor takes every precaution 
against fire ? ” queried the nervous visitor, whose 
room was on the eighth floor of the hotel. 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am,” replied the porter. “ He’s 
insured the ])lace for twice what it’s worth.” 


“ YES, LET ]SIE LIKE A SOLDIER FALL ! ” 

“ Do you know, Hettie,” said the father to his 
eighteen-year-old daughter the other morning, 
“ that it was after twelve o’clock last night when 
that young man left here ? ” 

“ Oh, it couldn’t have been, father.” 

“ But it was. Now, don’t let that hajipen 
again.” 

“ But I couldn’t tell him to leave. I did nothing 
to entertain him except show him my scrap-book.” 

“ Well, I’ll bring home my account-book this 
evening, with your millinery and dressmaker 
ex]^>enses balanced up. If he calls again show 
him that.” 












IfDOiie^siickle* 

A Study by Beatrice Offor. 


TENNkS. 

By Euhtace H. Miles,''* 

Amateur Tennia Clmnpion and Holder of the Gold Prize. 


Fhotoyrayfis by H. Mamr, Gambridije. 


T here is n good deal of confusion in 
tlie minds of many ])eople as to tlie 
various games in which one has to liit 
a ball above a certain height before it has 
bounced twice. I remember one lady, who 
knew that I was fond of fives and rackets, 
asking me if I would not like to play lawn- 
fives on her lawn-fives court, whereas another 


the name of their game; to them it is 
“ tennis,” and to speak of lawn-tennis as 
tennis is the greatest insult yon can offer 
them. For them tennis is tennis, and lawn- 
tennis is lawn-tennis, or else—pat-ball. 

Now, why is it that tliere is such confusion 
between the various games, and wliy is it 
tliat tennis is so little known ? 



A I'OUU-IIANDKI) game: ^IM HARKADINE, THE CAMRRIDGE MAllKElt, AROUT TO SERVE. 


day she called the game lawn-rackets ; the 
court then liecame a lawn-racket court. She 
imagined that fives and rackets, tennis and 
lawn-tennis were all the same game, being 
called by different names, perhaps, for the 
sake of variety. Squash-rackets was a form 
of exercise that she had never heard of. 

Tennis players are very particular about 


* Copyright, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 

November, 1900. G03 


First of all there are the technical terms, 
such as “ dedans,” “ tambour,” “ grille,” 
“ chase,” and “ boasted force.” These seem 
enough to frighten anyone, even though they 
are not worse than the technical terms of 
golf and are far less numerous than those of 
the medical profession ; yet this will certainly 
be one reason why tennis is so little known 
or understood. 

Secondly, it is undoubtedly expensive, 
partly because of the expense of building 

2 T 2 























(304 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



TENNIS RALE, ACTUAT. SIZE. 


and keeping up the liiige court and of paying 
the markers ; hwt it is only fair to rememher 
that lawn-tennis with the best conditions 
(especially plenty of new balls) is probably 
not a penny cheaper—in wet weatiier 
or on bad or dirty courts it is a great 
deal dearer. 

Thirdly, tennis is little if at all played by 
certain sets of people—for instance, it is not 
known at any school, while rackets is played 
both at the public schools and in the Army. 

Yet tennis is Avell worth studying for 
many reasons, and not least of all because 
of those who have played it! Shakespeare 
alludes to kmgs playing the game, and, the 
son of one of the Georges was killed by a 
tennis ball. Among modern players might 
he mentioned Lord AVindsor, the Hon. 
Alfred Lyttelton, Sir Edward Grey, the 
Duke of York, and Sir AYilliam Hart-lAyke. 
And to the list might be added many leading 
hiAvn-tennis players of tlie day, such as 
Doherty, Mahony, and Hesbit. 

The game has another interest besides the 
list of those ^y\lo have played it, and that is 
that it is very old. It need not be very old 
to be the mother of lawn-tennis, but the old- 
fashioned courts and the old allusions to the 
game show that it goes back into very early 
times. The building at Hampton Court 
will be familiar to many readers, and there 
are few Avho will not regret the removal of 
the old court at Lord’s on which the clock 
used to stand. 

The great charm of tennis is its variety. 
In’ tennis, as in lawn-tenuis, one tries to hit 


the ball over the net and past the other 
player or over his head ; but in tennis there 
is innch more choice—for example, there are 
the side-walls and the back-walls, and there 
are many openings into which the ball may 
be hit. 

The liistory of the game is not altogether 
clear. Mr. Jidian Marshall has given the 
best account of it in his “Annals of Tennis.” 
In its early stages it was played with a ball 
something like the present ball, but this was 
hit with the hand. Probably tliis was found 
painful, especially on a cold day, and the 
players took to wearing gloves, and then, so 
that they might strike the ball with more 
effect, they put gut across their fingers. 
Later on, to give leverage, they put the gut 
not on tlieir fingers, but on a wooden frame¬ 
work—thus we have the beginnings of the 
racket. 

This gut was so loose that one could not 
hit nearly so far or so fast with it as with 
a modern racket, which is also very heavy. 
On this page we see a modern racket, being 
gripped by the hand ; this racket weighs 
about seventeen ounces—that is to say, two or 
three ounces more than a lawn-tennis racket. 

Since olden times there has-been a con¬ 
siderable cliange in other things besides the 
racket. The ball is now covered with 
cloth. It is about the size of a lawn-tennis 
ball, but about as hard as a cricket l)all. 
The court now has a hard, even floor, and it 
is shut in above by a roof. Dumas’ novels 
show that this was not the case in early 



GUn* OF THE RACKET FOR A FOREHAND STROKE. 


TENNIS. 


6U5 



times, when, for example, 
a player could convey a 
message beyond the walls l)y 
attaching it to a ball and 
hitting the l)all outside the 
court. Now, also, the court 
is much “ faster,” and the 
balls come cpncker. The 
play itself has changed con¬ 
siderably. In olden times, 
when yonr opponent made 
certain good strokes, it was 
etiquette to bow courteously 
and to let the ball fall to the 
ground. We cannot imagine 
a modern player doing this ; 
it would be almost as ridicu¬ 
lous as for a cricketer to 
stand aside and let a 
ball ])owl him. In those 
days there was not much 
running about; tliere was 
stately grace, but there was 
not enough violent exercise 
to demand flannels as a 
necessity. An old-fashioned 
player bitterly complained, not long ago, 
that nowadays flannels are necessary at 
real tennis, because one is in danger of 
getting quite warm ! Indeed, Ave see many 
players rushing abont over the court almost 
as energetically as if they Avere playing foot¬ 
ball. Modern tennis must be classed as one 
of the most vigorous of games ; it is not 
much easier Avork than rackets. There are long 
rallies, Avhicli are curiously enough called 
“ rests ” ; there is hard hitting Avith a tightly 
strung racket, and there is often a very fast 
service also. There is much volleying, as in 
lawn-tennis, and there is a good deal of that 
beautiful stroke, the half-volley, of AAdiich 
Caridia is the exponent in kiAAm-tennis. 

Let us noAV look at the court as seen in the 
illustration on page G06. AYc are sitting in 
Avhat is called the dedans; Ave are beyond the 
back-Avail of the court, and Ave are protected 
from violence by a netting. Facing ns, and 
beyond the net in the middle of the court, is 
old Jim Harradine taking a back-hand stroke 
in the far right-hand corner ; Ave shall speak 
of him again directly. This place where Ave 
are sitting is a Avinning opening—that is to 
say, if Jim hits the ball into it during the 
play it Avill count one point to him. 

Just beliind Jim, and in the extreme riglit- 
hand corner, is a scpiare opening Cidled the 
grille; a ball Avhicli is hit into this is also a 
Avinning stroke, and makes a bang Avhich 
tSliOAVs that the mark has been reached. AYhat 


player does not love that bang, if he has hit 
the ball ? 

On the right-hand Avail, not far from this 
grille, is a projecting buttress coming at an 
angle. It is called the tamhoKr, though one 
lawn-tennis player of some note prefers to 
call it “ the hump.” A ball Avhich hits this 
Avill come off, not straight, but at a slant; 
the tambour is not nnlike the “ pepperbox ” 
in the Eton fives court. These three pecn- 
liarities are among the great charms of the 
game. 

x\nother charm is the fact that the court 
(like a racket court) has a back-Avall and side- 
Avalls, so that yon can often let a ball go past 
you, and can take it after it has hit the 
back-Avail. 

There used to be another winning “hazard” 
called the tune; this is noAV done away AAuth. 

The last of the Avinning openings is the 
farthest gallery on the other side of the net, 
and is called the icirinmg gallery. The 
galleries on the left-hand side of the court 
are iietted over, so that spectators of the 
game shall not be killed. To stand too near 
this netting, hoAvever, is almost as dangerous 
as to stand too near the bars of the monkey- 
house at the Zoo. Ea^cu through tlie pro¬ 
tection the ball may still do considerable 
business. OAmr the galleries is a iienthouse, 
Avhich slopes inwards ; there is a penthouse 
also at the -further end of the court, and one 
above the dedans. 




606 


THE WIXDSOR MAGAZINE. 


Among the galleries and in tlieir midst 
there is the entrance door; in this stands 
the marker ; he calls out the score and 
collects the balls. In our illustration the 
players are spinning for choice of sides, 
and the marker is waiting in his “ box ” ; 
occasionally the marker gets some very 
nasty l)alls hit at him, but he soon gets to 
know how to dodge them. Markers should 
be good boxers. 

Notice the large basket of balls ; generally 
six or nine dozen are used at a time, and 
they are put into an open box, which is 


All about the floor, except for a part of 
the further side of the court, are lines, whose 
purpose we shall see directly. When I say 
that they are for chases, I leave the I’eader 
no wiser than l)efore. 

It is not surprising that a certain lawn- 
tennis player should have complained that 
the game would be \'ery good if it were not 
for the “furniture” ; the “hump” and the 
“boxes” and the “left-luggage department” 
used to aggravate him beyond measure, to 
say nothing of the scoring of the game itself, 
on which we shall now touch lightly. 



TAKING A BACK-llANDKU UNDER THE “ GRIIJ.E ” : THE BUTTRESS ON THE WALL TO THE RIGHT 

IS THE ‘‘TAMBOUR.” 


almost inside the dedans. It is a great 
advantage that the players have not always 
to be running about outside the court, pick¬ 
ing up l)alls which they have hit there. 
A^dlat a. luxury it would be to play with nine 
dozen balls at lawn-tennis ! One sometimes 
sees the marker throw the basket from just 
by the dedans to a hole in the court just by 
the marker’s box. If he throws it well the 
l)asket settles down neatly into the hole ; but 
there are not many markers who are good at 
the trick. It is one of those graceful arts 
on which the markers of former days used 
to pride themselves. 


The players or the marker arrange wliat 
odds or handicap tlie weaker player shall 
receive. This may be very mucli as in lawn- 
tennis, or else one player may have to con¬ 
iine his strokes to “half the coui’t,” or he 
may not be allowed to hit into the winning 
openings ; or he may play with some strange 
implement, such as a cricket-bat. Personally 
I find this to be very good practice. Pettitt, 
the American champion, is very good with a 
piece of wood like a bit of an armchair ; 
other players ha\'e used bootjacks and soda- 
water bottles. 

Having arranged the odds, one of the 



















TEXNTS. 


607 


players comes to tlie side wliere we are 
sitting (in the dedans), and serves. Hie 
service is always from this dedans side, but 
it is very varied. 

One of the illustrations on this page shows 
a service high into the air; sncli a service one 
seldom sees" in lawn-tennis ; there is a special 
kind of high, service which for obvious 
reasons is called the gimffe. 

The second illustration on this page shows 
what is called a side-wall service ; it will hit 
the side-wall above the penthouse (on the 
left), and will then hit the penthouse itself 
(for every service must do that), and will 
come down towards oi’ on to the back-wall. 

This differs from a lawn-tennis service in 
being, as a rule, very heavily cut or sliced, 
so tiiat when it has reached the back-wall 
it will drop down snddeidy. Tlie server can 
stand anywhere on the service-side. 

A very favourite service is from the left 
side of the court, and from close to the 
dedans. From this place the ball is struck 
on to the penthonse, with a very hard nnder- 
hand or overhand stroke, and rushes along 
at a great pace ; it may reach the back-wall 
at the ‘‘ nick,” that is to say, just where the 



IN POSITION FOR SERVING CLOSE UNDER THE 
PENTHOUSE. 



IN POSITION FOR A lllCill SERVICE. 


back-wall meets the floor. Of course, sncli 
a service Avonld be almost impossil)le to 
return ; it is called the chemvn de fer or 
railroad service. Tin's variety in the services 
helps to make tennis the exciting game it is ; 
the lawn-tennis service is, in comparison, 
most monotonous to watch. 

The player on the further side has to 
return the ball over the net (as in lawn- 
tennis), bnt he may hit the ball right into 
the dedans itself (this will always be a 
winning stroke), or full against the back- 
wall or the side-wall (np to a certain height). 
In lawn-tennis snch a stroke wonld go “out 
of court.” 

The scoring Avill be A'ery mnch the same 
as in lawn-tennis—for instance, ‘‘ 15—love, 
15—all, 30-15, 30—all, 40-3((, dence, 

vantage, dence, vantage, game.” The “set” 
is for six games. All this sounds very 
familiar to lawn-tennis players or spectators, 
l)nt there are considerable differences in the 
scoring beyond these mere numbers. 

First of all there are those winning strokes 
of which we ha.A'e s])oken already ; many ol 
them wonld go hying far outside the court 
at lawn-tennis. Then there are what are 
called the chases; they are the despair of 
the uninitiated spectators, and cannot be 



608 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


described in detail here. The principle is tliat 
a player may often leave a ball alone and let 
it fall, Avithont. necessarily losing the stroke. 
Me will play again for the stroke, but wlien 
lie thus plays again for it he will play under 
unfavourable conditions. He has to go on 
making better strokes than the one Avdiich he 
left alone. Mis strokes will all have to be a 
lietter “length,” or else “cut” so heavily 
that they Avill come down smartly when they 
bit the back-wall. 

The lines across the floor on the service- 
side mark the distance from the back- 
wall. Supposing that I am playing on 
this side, and cannot reacli a stroke, so that 
I let the ball strike the floor twim^ then the 
marker notes where the ball strikes the floor 



Photo by Ludovici,'} [iVeio Yor/c. 

PETER LATHAM, '\VORLD-CHAMPIOX FOR TENNIS AND 
RACKETS. 


at the second bounce. If it is two yards 
froin the back-Avall, he calls out “ Chase 2 ” ; 
if it is a little more than six yards, he calls 
out “ AVorse than 6 ”; and, if it is still nearer 
to the net, he may call out “The last gallery,” 
or “ The second gallery,” etc., according to 
the spot. 

Now, when there are two such chases, or 
when there is only one, and the game is within 
one point of being finished, then we change 
sides, and now I have to play out the two 
chases or the one chase over again, but this 
time at a disadvantage ; for every stroke I 
make has now to be a better stroke than the 
one I left alone. For instance, the playing 
for the “ chase 2 ” Avill mean that each of 
my strokes has to strike the floor, at its 
second bounce, between “ chase 2 ” and the 
back-Avail—Avithin two yards of the back- 
Avall. If I fail to hit one ball as close to tlie 
back-Avall as this, and if my opponent leaves 
this “ failure ” alone, then I shall have lost 
the “ chase ” and the stroke : the marker 
AA^ll call out “ Lost it,” and my opponent Avill 
get the point. 

If I do not think that I can possibly keep 
the ball Avithin this limit, I may strike for 
the dedans, AA'hich is alAA'ays a Avinning 
opening. 

If you notice tlje grip in the illustration 
on page ()04, you Avill see that the head of 
the racket is at an angle, and the racket Avill 
strike the ball, not fair and square, but Avith 
a kind of slicing stroke. An old marker 
described it as hitting the ball “ as if you AA'as 
trying to kill a duAvg.” This, Avliich is called 
the cut, is one of the most marked features 
of tennis ; it is also found in rackets, not in 
the play itself, but in the service. 

This cut makes the stroke somcAAdiat sIoaaxu- 
than the stroke at rackets, and at rackets also 
one is not alloAved to play over again any 
stroke Avhich one has left alone. There are 
no “ chases.” In this, rackets resembles la.Avn- 
tennis. In rackets also there is more hard 
driving. But tennis is acquiring this hard 
driA^e more and more. 

Of course, fives, though someAvhat like 
tennis in many AA'ays, is different from tennis, 

I v.vn-tennis, and rackets, because in it both 
1 ::/ik1s are used, and not a racket at all. 

Some of the adA^antages of tennis as a 
game may noAV briefly be mentioned. 

For one thing, as the illustration of the 
game Avill shoAV, there is an old-ivorld feelimf 
about the tennis court. It is like Avalking in 
an old-fashioned garden ; one feels outside 
the busy rush of life and business in this 
“ Avorld of sport shut in,” and the effect is 


TENNIS. 


009 


ref resiling. Perhaps it is partly this, as well 
as the very great merits of the game, that is 
making tennis so popular in America. 

For the game has very great merits ; there 
always seems to be something fresh to learn 
and to study, and the Avhole art of tennis 
is most engrossing. Only the other day an 
amateur told me that he would be quite 
content to knock about tennis balls by 
himself for hours together iu a tennis court. 

The game is also not too long, though 
much will depend on one’s opponent. Besides 
this, it can be played up to almost any age, 
for the gain of experience will almost 
connteract the loss of activity up to a certain 
point. The veteran will know just how to 
play a stroke, just what halls to leave alone, 
and just Avhat kind of service to give. Jim 
Harradine, the Cambridge marker, is over 
fifty years of age, but does not seem yet to 
have lost any of his activity—he can play for 
five or six hours a day. Mr. Boss, who 
writes the excellent accounts of tennis matches 
for the Fields is also no longer young, but 
there seems no reason why he should not 
keep up his game at a high level for ever so 
many years to come. 

Tennis, iiidike lawn-tennis on the grass, 
may be played all the year round and iu any 
Aveather. The tennis marker also makes a 
great difference. It must not be thought 
that the marker merely inarks ; he or his 
assistants are able to string rackets, and they 
will play Avith a player AAdiose opponent has 
not turned up ; they give lessons as Avell. 
And this is not all, for they rank among 
the very highest classes of professionals in 
England. Some of them are among the 
pleasantest men one could possibly meet. 
It is AA^ell Avortli AAdiile to talk over the game 
Avith many of these markers; their ideas 
and their varied stock of anecdotes are 
alAvays Avorth listening to. Peter Latham is 
an especially interesting example of the 
tennis professional, partly, of course, because 
he is champion of the Avorld both at tennis 
and at rackets. 

Other markers have had their peculiar 
interests. Of Tom Pettitt Ave have already 
spoken ; he is one of the most poAverfully 
built men that I liaA^e ever seen ; he looks as 
if he could easily take up anybody and throw 
him anywhere ; he, like Peter Latham, is a 
splendid teacher, and one of the most interest¬ 
ing men to talk to. Another marker AAdiom 
I knew used to be able to jump on to the 
penthouse. 

It is the handicaps, as Avell as the markers, 
that help to make tennis a fascinating 



!•;. II. MILES (amateur ciiampiox and holder ok 

THE GOLD prize), IN A IIANDK’AP WITH A ORICKET 
RAT INSTEAD OF A RACKET. 


game. At lawn-tennis you meet an oppo¬ 
nent AAdio can easily beat you, or whom you 
can easily beat; it will jiot be an even game, 
and perhaps you are the better player and 
yon say to him, ‘‘ How much shall I give 
you ? ” He says, ‘‘ Oh, I would much rather 
play leA-el.” Now, if you play up hard yon 
Avill Avin easily ; if you do not, the game Avill 
hardly be AVorth the candle, for there are 
fcAV things more unsatisfactory than a slack 
game. At tennis, however, there is a certain 
compulsion brought to bear on the players, 
for if anyone in a set loses six games rnnning, 
this is called a love set, and the loser has to 
pay a shilling to the marker. The man who 
refused to take odds might, therefore, lose 
fiA^e or six shillings in a day; this Avill 
incline him to take odds. No one cares for 
paying even a shilling, quite apart from the 
ignominy of the love set ; Avhereas it is 
not ignominy in tennis to receive proper 
odds, for it is the regular custom. 

Someone AAdll say that there are but very 
feAv courts in England, or perhaps in the 
Avorld, but England alone possesses over 




610 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


thirty. Jii Cciinbridge there are two, and the 
others are scattered over England ; Scotland 
and Ireland even liavc them. Abroad, 
there are two excellent and well-used courts 
in Paris, and in and around Paris there used 
to be many, although few of them are much 
frequented. There is one at Yienna, and a 
dear little court at Hobart, in Tasmania, and 
there is a fine court also in Melbourne. In 
America—Ohicago, Poston, and New York 
have tennis as well as racket courts, and a 
lovely new court has been built in the 
neighbouidiood of New York, at Tuxedo 
Park. The cement work is by Bicklcy and 
is excellent. It was in this court that I 
played an international match Avith the 
American amateur champion, Mr. L. 
Stockton. Mr. George Gould also has a 
beautiful court at Lakewood. It is 
rumoured that private courts are likely to 
be built near New York, and that later on 
the Universities— e.g.^ Harvard and Yhile— 
may possibly have tennis courts as Avell. 

The Americans do things which Ave should 
not dream of doing. We can hardly imagine 


a tennis court, such as Ave used to see under 
the clock at Lord’s, being transferred to the 
fourth or fifth storey of a building ; and yet 
America has tAvo courts right up at the top 
of a building ; for land is very expensiA'e, 
and a tennis court on the ground floor 
AA’ould be too dear a luxury, and, besides, a 
tennis court could hardly be built AAdth any¬ 
thing above it, because it needs a light from 
the top ; and so the Americans at Poston 
and Ncav York have tlieir tennis courts on 
the top floor. 

It is a pity that Ave do not use the roofs 
of our houses in London for the purpose of 
healthy exercise. In a subsequent article, 
on rackets and squash-rackets, I shall sIioav 
how easily and cheaply squash-racket courts 
could be built on the tops of large buildings 
in the middle of London and other cities. 
Smuts there Avonld be in al)undance, but 
there Avould also be open air, good exercise, 
and a healthy form of real pleasure close at 
hand. And this surely is AAdiat our city 
life and our nation need almost more than 
anything else. 


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BACK-WALL 


DIAGRAMS ILLUSTRATING THE TECHNICALITIES OF THE TENNIS COURT. 


DEDANS 












































Bv A. J. Wall 






YOUNG BARBARIANS. 

By IAN MACLAfiEN.* 

Illnstrated h/j Harold Copinng, 


No. YI.-aUEFJLLA A\^ARFAEE. 


HERE is 110 
person in a 
KScots coun¬ 
try town to 
be compared 
witli a Bailie 
for antliority 
and dignity, 
and Bailie 
M a c C 0 n a- 
chie,of Miiir- 
town, was a 
glory to liis 
order. Pro- 
\'osts mig’lit 
come and go 
—creatures of three years—but this man 
remained in office for ever, and so towered 
above his brethren of the same kind, that 
the definite article was attached to his title, 
and to quote “ the Bailie ” without his name 
was the recognised form and an end to all 
controversy. Nature had been kind to him, 
and, entering into the designs of Providence, 
had given him a bodily appearance corre¬ 
sponding to his judicial position. He stood 
six feet in his boots, and his erect carriage 
conveyed the impression of six inches more. 
His waistband approached forty-eight inches ; 
but, to do the great man justice, his chest 
measure was forty-two. His chin rested in 
folds upon his stock, and his broad, clean¬ 
shaven, solemn, immovable countenance 
suggested unfatliomable depths of wisdom. 
His voice was deep and husky, and the 
clearance of his throat with which he empha¬ 
sised his deliverances could be heard half a 
street away and was like the sealing of a 
legal deed. Never since he became a Bailie 
had he seen his boots—at least upon bis feet 
—and his gait, as became his elevation, was 
a stately amble, as when a huge merchant¬ 
man puts out to sea, driving the water before 
her bow and yet swaying gently from side 
to side in her progress. Sunday and Satur- 



* Cop5"riglit, mpo, by John Watson, in the United 
States of America, 


day—except when officiating at the Sacra¬ 
ment, and of course then he was in full 
blacks—the Bailie wore exactly the same 
kind of dress—a black frock-coat, close 
buttoned, and grey trousers, with a dark 
blue stock, his one concession to colour. As 
his position was quite assured, being, in the 
opinion of many, second only to that of the 
Sheriff and the Fiscal, he could afford to 
wear his clothes to the bone, and even to 
carry one or Hvo stains upon his chest as 
a means of identification. Walking through 
the town, he stood at his full height, with 
his hands folded upon the third button of 
his coat; but when he reached the North 
Meadow, on his way home, and passed the 
Seminary, he allowed his head to droop, and 
clasped his hands behind after the manner 
of the great Napoleon, and then it was 
understood that the Bailie’s mind was 
wrestling with the affairs of State. People 
made way for him upon the street as he 
sailed along, and were pleased with a recog¬ 
nition, wliich always took the form of a 
judgment from the Bench, even though it 
dealt only with the weather or the crops. 

There was no occasion, either in the 
Council or in the Presbytery, when the 
Bailie did not impress ; but everyone agreed 
that he rose to his height on the Bench. 
No surprise, either of evidence or of law, 
could be sprung on him, no sensational 
incident ever stirred him, no excitement of 
the people ever carried him away. He was 
the terror of the publicans, and would refuse 
a licence if he saw fit without any fear ; but 
if the teetotalers tried to dictate to him, he 
would turn upon them and rend his own 
friends without mercy. When any Muirtown 
sinner was convicted in his court he Avould 
preface his sentence with a ponderous exhor¬ 
tation, and if the evidence were not sufficient 
he would allow the accused to go as an act 
of grace, but warn him never to appear 
again, lest a worse thing should befall him. 
There are })rofane poo])le in every community, 
and there were those in Muirtown who used 
to say in private places that the Bailie was 


612 





GUERILLA WARFARE. 


018 


only a big drum full of emptiness and sound ; 
blit the local lawyers found it best to treat 
him with respect, and until the Seminary 
boys took his Majesty in hand he had never 
been worsted. No doubt an Edinburgh 
^idvocate, who had been imported into a 
petty case to browbeat the local Bench, 
thought he had the Bailie on the hip when 
that eminent man, growing weary of con¬ 
tinual allusions to “ the defunct,” said that 
if he heard anything more about “the 
defunct ” he would adjourn the case for a 
week and allow him to appear in his own 
interests. Then the advocate explained with 
elaborate politeness that he was afraid that 
even the summons of the Muirtown Bench 
could not produce this party, and that his 
appearance, if he came, might secure the 
court to himself. 

“ You mean,” said the Bailie, eyeing the 
advocate with unmoved dignity, “ that the 
man is dead. Quite so ! Quite so ! But 
let me tell you that if you had been a 
Muirtown solicitor you would have had your 
case better prepared, and not wasted our 
time with the talk of dead people. You are 
still young, and when you have had more 
expeiience you will know that it is only the 
evidence of living witnesses that can be 
received in a court of justice. Proceed 
with your case and confine yourself 
to relevant evidence—yes, sir, relevant 
evidence.” 

It only shows the inherent greatness of 
the man that in private life the Bailie 
followed the calling of an Italian warehouse¬ 
man, wliich really, in plain words, was the 
same thing as a superior grocer, nor was he 
above liis trade for eight hours of the day. 
Wlieii not engaged in official work, he could 
be found behind his counter, and yet even 
there he seemed to be upon the Bench. His 
white apron he wore as a robe of office, he 
heard what the ladies had to say with a 
judicial air, correcting them if they hinted 
at any tea costing less than four and sixpence 
per pound, commanding a cheese to be 
brought forward for inspection, as if it had 
been a prisoner in the dock, probing it with 
searching severity and giving a judgment 
upon it from wliich there was no appeal. 
He distinguished between customers, assign¬ 
ing to each such provisions as were suitable 
for their several homes, inquiring in a 
paternal manner after the welfare of their 
children, and when the case was concluded— 
that is to say, the tea and the sugar bought— 
even condescending to a certain high level 
of local gossip. When the customer left the 



‘‘After tljc lujinncr of tlie f^reat Napoleon.” 

shop it was with a sense of privilege, as if 
one had been called up for a little to sit 
with the judge. It ivas understood that 
only people of a certain standing were 
included among the Bailie’s customers, and 
the sight of the Countess of Kilspiudie’s 
carriage at his door marked out his })rovince 
of business. Yet if a little lassie stumbled 
into the shop and asked for a pennyworth 
of peppermints, he would order lier to be 
served, adding a peppermint or two more, 
and some good advice which sent away the 
little woman much impressed ; for tliough 
the Bailie committed one big, blazing indis¬ 
cretion, and suffered terribly in consequence 
thereof, he was a good and honest man. 

The Bailie made only one public mis¬ 
take in his life, but it was on the largest 
scale, and everyone wondered that a man 
so sagacious should have deliberately entered 
into a feud with tlie boys of the Seminary. 
Tlie Bailie had battled in turn with the 
Licensed Victuallers, who as a fighting body 
are not to be despised, and with the Tee¬ 
totalers, whom every wise man who loves 
peace of mind leaves alone ; with the Tories, 
who were his opponents, and with the 
Liberals, his own party, when he happened 
to disagree with them; with the Town 
Council, wliom he vanquished, and with 


G14 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


tlie Salmon Fislieiy Board, whom he hroughfc 
to terms; but all those battles were as 
nothing to a campaign with the boys. 
There is all the difference in the world 
between a war with regulars, conducted 
according to the rules of military science, 
and a series of guerilla skirmishes, wherein 
all the chances are with the alert and light¬ 
armed enemy. Any personage who goes to 
war with boys is bound to be beaten, for he 
may threaten and attack, but he can hardly 
ever hurt them, and never possibly can 
conquer them ; and they will buzz round 
him like wasps, will sting him and then be 
off, will put him to shame before the public, 
will tease him on his most sensitive side, 
will lie in wait for him in unexpected places 
with an ingenuity and a perseverance and a 
mercilessness which are born of the Devil, 
who in such matters is the unfailing ally 
of all genuine boys. 

It was no doubt annoying to a person 
of the Bailie’s dignity and orderliness to 
see the terrace in which the Seminary 
stood, and which had the honour of con¬ 
taining his residence, turned into a play¬ 
ground, and outrageous that Jock Howieson, 
playing rounders in front of a magistrate’s 
residence, should send the ball crack through 
the plate-glass window of a magistrate’s 
dining-room. It was fearsome conduct on 
the part of Jock, and even the ball itself 
might have known better; but the Bailie 
might have been certain that Jock did not 
intend to lose his ball and his game also, 
and the maddest thing the magistrate 
could do was to make that ball a cause 
of war. It was easy enough to go to 
Bulldog’s class-room and lodge a complaint, 
but as he could not identify the culprit, 
and no one would tell on Jock, the Bailie 
departed worsted, and the address which 
he gave the boys was received with derision. 
AVhen he turned from the boys to the 
master, he fared no better, for Bulldog, 
who hated tell-tales and had no particular 
respect for Bailies, told the great man 
plainly that his (Bulldog’s) jurisdiction 
ceased at the outer door of the Seminary, 
and that it wtis not his business to keep 
order in the terrace. Even the sergeant, 
when the Bailie commanded him to herd 
the boys in the courtyard, forgot the respect 
due to a magistrate, and refused point-blank, 
besides adding a gratuitous warning, which 
the Bailie deeply resented, to let the matter 
drop, or else lie’d repent the day when he 
interfered with the laddies. 

“ I was a sergeant in the Black AYatch, 


Bailie, and I was through Uie Crimean war 
—ye can sec my medals; but it takes me all 
my time to keep the pack in hand witliin 
my ain jurisdiction ; and if ye meddle wi’ 
them outside yir jurisdiction, I tell ye. 
Bailie, they’ll inak a fool o’ ye afore they’re 
done w’ ye in face o’ all Muirtown. There’s 
a way o’ managin’ them, but peety ye if ye 
counter them. Noo, when they broke the 
glass in the Count’s windows, if he didna 
pretend that he couldna identify them and 
paid the cost himself ! He may be Trench, 
but he’s long-headed, for him and the laddies 
are that friendly there’s naething they 
wouldna do for him. As ye value yir peace 
o’ mind. Bailie, and yir poseetion in Muir¬ 
town, dinna quarrel wi’ the Seminary. 
They’re fine laddies as laddies go; but for 
mischief, they’re jiiist born deevils.” 

There is a foolish streak in every man, 
and the Bailie went on to his doom. As the 
authorities of the Seminary refused to do 
their duty—for which he would remember 
them in the Council when questions of 
salary and holidays came up—the Bailie fell 
back on the police, who had their own 
thoughts of his policy, but dared not argue 
with a magistrate ; and one morning an 
able-bodied constable appeared on the scene 
and informed the amazed scliool that he 
was there to prevent them })laying on the 
terrace. No douht he did his duty according 
to his light, but neither he nor six constables 
could have quelled the Seminary any more 
than you could hold quicksilver in your 
hand. AVhen he walked with stately step 
up and down the broad pavement before 
Bulldog’s windows, the Seminary went up 
and played opposite the Bailie’s house, intro¬ 
ducing his name into conversation, with 
opprobrious remarks regarding the stoutness 
of his person and the emptiness of his head, 
and finally weaving the story of his life into 
a verse of poetry which was composed by 
Sparrow, but is not suitable for printing in a 
family magazine. If the constable, with the 
foar of the magistrate before his eyes, Avent up 
to stand as a guard of honour before the 
Bailie’s house, the scliool went down then to 
the Russian guns and held a meeting of 
triumph, challenging the constable to come 
back to the Seminary, and telling him what 
they Avould do to him. They formed a 
bodyguard round him some days, keeping 
just out of reach, and marched along with 
liiin, backward and forward; other days 
they ehaifed and teased him till his life was 
a burden to him, for he had no poAver to 
arrest them, and at his heart he sympathised 


GUERILLA WARFARE. 


615 



“ They rolled in one bundle of delight.” 


with tliein. And then, at last, being weary of 
the constable, the school tniMied its attention 
to the Ikilie. 

One afternoon a meeting of choice spirits 
was held in the North Meadow, beyond the 
supervision of the constable, and after the 
Bailie had been called every name of abuse 
known to the Seminary, and the Sparrow had 
ransacked the resources of the stable-yard 
in profanity, he declared that the time had 
now come for active operation, and tliat tlie 
war must be carried into the enemy’s country. 
Tlie Sparrow declared his conviction in the 
vernacular of the school, which is here trans¬ 
lated into I’espectable language, that the 
Bailie was a gentleman of doubtful birth and 
discreditable pedigree, that his conduct as a 
boy was beyond description, and that liis 


jwivate life was shiined with every vice ; 
tliat his intellect would give him a right to 
be confined in the county asylum, and that 
he had also rpialified by his way of living for 
the county gaol; that he didn’t Avash more 
than once a year, and that the smell of him 
was like to that from a badger’s hole ; that 
it was a pity he didn’t attend to his own 
Imsiness, and that he had very little business 
to do ; that he Avould soon be liankrupt, and 
that if he Avasn’t bankrupt already it Avas 
only because he cheated Avith his change ; 
that he sanded his sugar, and that liis 
weights and measures Avere a scandal ; but 
that the Seminary must do Avhat they could 
to lead him to honest Avays and teach him 
industry, and that he (Spiug) Avith the aid 
of one or two friends Avould do his best for 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


ok; 



THE FAMOUS ITALIAN 
ir.-l REIIO USEMAN , 

49, St. Andrew’s Street. 


ELEVKNPENCE-HALF- 
PENNY PER POUND! 


Sale Begins at One o'clock 
on Saturday. 


Glass of Whisky Free to 
All Purchasers! 


Poor People Specially 
Invited. 


CHEAP TEA! CHEAP TEA! 


CHEAP TEA! 


Sale of Bankrupt Stock 

AT 

BAILIE MACCONACIIIE’S 


which was greater than they ever showed in 
tlieir work —to tlie elahoratioii of a high-class 
advertisement whicli was to be sliown round 
a certain district in Mnirtown, and which 
they hoped would stimulate the custom at 
Bailie MacConachie’s shop. Howieson had 
provided two large boards such as might be 
hung one on the breast and one on the back 
of a man, and those Spiug had cut to the 
proper size and pasted over with thick white 
paper. Upon them Bauldie, who had quite 
a talent for drawing, wrought diligently 
for a space of two hours, Avith the assist¬ 
ance and encouragement of his friends, 
and when they set the boards up against 
the wall the committee was greatly 
pleased. Spiug read aloud the advertise¬ 
ment with much unction— 


“ Tlio. Jlorcmy of tlip Veiiuol.” 


yic Earhj^ Be Early. 


BA ILl E ACCONACniE'S 
CHEAP TEA! 


CHEAP TEA! 


CHEAP TEA! 

The three artists contained them¬ 
selves till they came to the last 
‘‘ Cheap Tea ! ” then Jock knocked 
Bauldie down among the hay, and 
Spiug fell on the top of them, and 
they rolled in one bundle o^ 
delight, arising from time to time 
to study the advertisement and 
taste its humour. 

“ ‘ Bankrupt stock ! ”’ cried 
Bauldie, “and him an Elder of 
the Kirk ! That’ll learn him to 
be complaining of his Avindows.” 

“ ‘Poor people specially invited,’ 
and calls himself an Italian ware- 


the reformation of Bailie MacConachie, and 
in this Avay return good for evil, as Mr. 
Byles, assistant in the department of mathe¬ 
matics, used to teach. And the school 
AA-aited Avitli expectation for the missionary 
effort upon Avliich Spiug, Avith the assistance 
of Howieson and Bauldie, Avas understood to 
be engaged. 

Next Friday eATiiing an art committee 
met in a stable-loft on the premises of Mr. 
McGuffie senior, and devoted their skill— 















GUERILLA WARFARE. 


617 


houseman. I would give half a dozen 
ginger-beer to see Lady Kilspindie there,” 
stammered Jock with delight. 

“ ‘ Glass of whisky free 1 ’ ” — and Spiug 
took a fresli turn in the hay—‘‘ it’s against 
law to drink whisky in a grocer’s shop— 
and him a magistrate ! He’ll no meddle wi’ 
the Seminary again.” 

‘‘ ‘ Be early! ’ ” chanted Jock, “ ‘ be early ! ’ 
My word ! They’ll be there, all the waufies 
of Muirtown ; there’ll no be room in the 
street. ‘ Glass of whisky free ! ’ ” and Jock 
wiped his eyes with his knuckles. 

Upon Saturday, at noon, just as the Bailie 
was going along the terrace to his house 
and congratulating himself that on that 
day at least he was free from all annoyance 
by the way, another character of MuirtoAVii 
had started out through a very different 
part of the fair city. London John was as 
well kiiOAvn in Muirtown as the Bailie him¬ 
self, and ill his way Avas quite as imposing. 
Tall and gaunt, Avithout an ounce of super¬ 
fluous flesh, and Avith an inscrutable counten¬ 
ance, dressed in a long frock-coat AAdiich he 
had Avorn for at least a quarter of a century, 
and a tall hat Avhich he had rescued from an 
ashpit, Avith the remains of a pair of trousers, 
and something in the form of a shirt Avhich 
AA*as only seen AAdien he laid aside the outer 
garment for active service, Loudon John 
stalked Avith majesty through the streets of 
MuirtoAvn. He earned his living as a sand¬ 
wich-man, or by carrying in coals, or by going 
errands, or by emptying ashpits. He could 
neither read nor Avrite, but he remembered a 
number and never forgot Avhat Avas due to him, 
and the solitary subject on AAdiich he spoke Avas 
the Avonders of London, Avhere it Avas supposed 
he had lost such reason as he had at once 
possessed. His coming Avas alAA^ays Avelcome 
in the poorer parts of the town, for the sake 
of his discourse on London, but never had 
he received such an OA^ation before in the 
Yeimel, AAdiich AA-as largely' inhabited by 
tramps and tinkers, unskilled labourers and 
casuals of all kinds. The cheap tea might 
not have aroused their enthusiasm, but at 
the mention of a free glass of AAdiisky the 
deepest emotions of the Yennel AA^ere stirred. 

“ Tea at elevenpence halfpenny,” cried 
Tinkler Tam, who jogged round the 
country Avith petty AA^ares, Avliich he sold 
in exchange for rabbit-skins, old clothes, 
and other debris of a house, “ and a glass 
of Avhisky free ! My certes ! let me get a 
sight of that,” and London John Avas 
brought to a standstill AAdiile Tam read 
aloud the advertisement to a croAvd who 


could appreciate the cheapness of the tea, 
and Avhose tongues began to hang out at 
the very thought of the Avhisky. 

“ A lee ! ” cried the travelling merchant, 
touched at the suggestion of such deceit. 
“ He daurna do sic a thing, else his shop 
Avould be gutted. Ha, iia, it reads plain as 
a pikestaff; ye pay elevenpence halfpenny 
and ye get a pound of tea and a glass of 
whisky. I count it handsome o’ the Bailie; 
and if they didna say lie Avas a teetotaler ! 
It’s aAvfu’ hoAV a man is abused.” 

‘‘ He gave me six days in the court,” said 
Jess Mitchell, avIio had had a difference of 
opinion Avith another lady in the Yennel 
and received the Bailie’s best attention from 
the Bench, “ and if I hadna to hear him 
preach a sermon as long as my leg besides— 
confound him for a smooth-tongued, psahn- 
singin’, bletherin’ old idiot! But I bear him 
no grudge ; I’ll hae a taste o’ that Avhisky, 
though I’m no mindin’ so much about the 
tea. The sooner Ave’re at the place the 
better, for I’ll be bound there’ll be more tea 
bought this day in MuirtoAvn than a’ the 
last year.” And there AA^as a general feeling 
that the Yennel had better make no delay, 
lest some other locality should obtain the 
first call. 

As London John Avent on his AA^ay the neAvs 
spread through the back streets and closes, 
and the Bailie’s generous invitation fell on 
responsive ears. And if any person Avas 
inclined to doubt, there Avas the advertise¬ 
ment in plain terms, and over the board 
Avith its engaging neAvs the austere and 
unmoved countenance of London John. 
That Avorthy could give no information 
about the remarkable placard, not even from 
Avhom he received it; but he Avas quite sure 
that he Avas to take it through the Yennel 
and neighbouring streets for tAvo hours, and 
that he had received a shilling for his labour, 
Avhich he proposed to spend at Bailie 
MacConachie’s Avhen his task Avas done. 
He also explained that in London, where 
he used to reside, Avliisky ran like water, 
and tea could be had for the asking. But 
his hearers had no interest that day in 
London. 

It struck the Bailie as lie returned from 
midday dinner, and long before he reached 
St. Andrew’s Street, that something Avas 
happening, and he Avondered Avhether they 
Avere changing the cavalry at the barracks. 
People looked curiously at him, and having 
made as though they Avould have spoken, 
passed on, shaking their heads. When he 
turned into the familiar street, doAvn Avhich 

2 U 


(518 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


he was accustomed to parade witli a double 
weight of dignity, an eidiveiling spectacle 
met his eyes. Every shopkeeper was out 
at his door, and would indeed have been 
along the street, liad he not judged it wiser 
to protect his property, and the windows 
above the shop were full of faces. Opposite 
his own most respectable place of business the 
street was crammed from side to side with 
a seething mob, througli which Mr. ]\IcGuffie 
senior was striving to drive a dogcart with 
slender success and complaining loudly of 
obstruction. Kespectable working women 
were there, together with their husbands, 
having finished the day’s work; country folk 
who dropped into town on the Saturday had 
been attracted to the scene; the rilf-raff of 
Muirtown had come out from tlieir dens 
and lodging-houses, together with that 
casual population which has nothing par¬ 
ticular to do and is glad of any excitement. 
They were of various kinds and different 
degrees of respectability, but they were all 
collected in answer to Bailie ]\IacConachie’s 
generous offer ; they were also all ready to 
buy the tea, and a large number of them 
particularly ready for the Avhisky. The first 
to arrive on the scene had been Tinkler 
Tam, who put down elevenpence-halfpenny 
in copper money upon the counter with a 
clash, and informed the Bailie’s senior 
assistant that to save time he would just 
take the whisky while they were making up 
the tea, and was promptly ordered Out of 
the shop for an impudent, drunken black¬ 
guard. Thomas, in the course of a varied 
life, was not unaccustomed to be called 
disrespectful names, and it was not the first 
time he had been requested to leave high 
class premises ; but for once, at least, he 
had a perfectly good conscience and a strong 
ground of complaint. 

“ Impident, am I, and drunken, did ye 
say, ye meeserable, white-faced effeegy of a 
counter-jumper ? If I werena present on 
business I would put such a face on you 
that yir mother wouldna know you ; but Pm 
here wi’ my friends ” (great applause from 
the doorway, wliere the crowd was listening 
to the interview) “ for a commercial transac¬ 
tion. ])iv ye no ken, ye misshapen object, 
that we’re here on a special invitation of yir 
master, sent this mornin’ to the Yennel ? ” 
(strong confirmation given under oatli by 
Jess Mitchell), “and I’ll juist give you the 
terms thereof, ye two-faced, leein’, unprin¬ 
cipled Avratch” (entliusiastic suppo]*t from 
the street). 

The ambassador of the proletariat—Avhose 


constituency filled the outer part of the shop, 
pressed their faces against the window and 
swerved with impatience across the street, 
and also possessed a lamp-])ost for purposes 
of observation—rehearsed the terms of the 
advertisement Avith considerable accuracy 
and expounded them Avith various figures 
of speech, and then issued Ids ultimatum. 

“ Ye liave heard tlie invitation sent oot 
l;)y a magistrate o’ Perth, and a man Avliom 
I’ve met on public occasions ” (Tam had 
been prosecuted before tlie Bailie under the 
Game Acts) ; “ Ave’re here in response to a 
public advertisement in terms thereof, and 
my money is on the counter. I call these 
persons present to witness that I’ve fulfilled 
my side of the covenant, and I here and 
noAv before these witnesses demand the tea 
and the Avhisky as above stated ” (hoAvls 
from the croAvd, Avho AA^ere greatly impressed 
by this judicial effort, and Avere getting 
every minute more thirsty). 

“ It’s maist extraordinary that the Bailie is 
no here himsel’ to receive his friends ; but 
AA'hat is done by the servant is done by the 
master—that’s good laAV ” (vehement support 
from Jess Mitchell, aaJio at the smell of the 
shop was getting beyond control); “and I giA^e 
ye two meenuts, my dainty young friend, and 
if the material be not forthcoming at the 
end of that time, the laAVAAull alio av us to help 
ourselves, and gin ye offer ony resistance I’ll 
pit ye and yir neebour inside the sugar- 
cask.” And it Avas fortunate for OA^ery person 
concerned that the police, avIio had been 
someAvhat perplexed by the circumstances, 
arrived at the scene, and turned Tinkler Tam 
and his friends into the street and themselves 
stood guard OA^er the shop. It Avas at this 
point that the Bailie arrived and Avas received 
Avith frantic applause and a Babel of appeal. 

“ Hurrah for the Bailie ! Come a\AV, man, 
quick, else yir shop aauU bo AATcckit. Where 
ha’ ye been ? The folk are cryin’ oot for ye. 
It’s time ye started on the tea and the Avhisky. 
Make Avay for the Bailie. He’s coming to 
start the auction. Three cheers for Bailie 
MacConachie ! ” And the Bailie, limp and 
dishevelled, amazed and furious, AA-as hustled 
through the croAvd to see the Italian Avare- 
house guarded by the police, and the mob of 
]\IuirtoAvn clamouring for tea and Avhisky at 
his hand, Avhile face to face Avith him stood 
London John, Avho had noAv been produced 
for the occasion, bearing on his back and 
breast the seductiA^e adA^ertisement. 

“ It’s a brazen lie ! ” And the enraged 
Bailie lost all self-control as he read the 
legend on the board. “ A low, mean, dirty 



The enraged Bailie lost all self-control as he read the legend on the board.” 











020 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


trick, a deliberately planned fraud. It’s 
perfectly inicpiitous, in fact, juist—jnist dam¬ 
nable! Iknkrupt—who is bankrupt? Is’tme?” 
And tlie veins on the Bailie’s neck swelled 
visibly. “ Tea at elevenpence-halfpenny ! I 
never had such trash in my shop. Three 
shillings is the lowest, and I never recom¬ 
mended it. Whisky !—there is not a drop in 
the shop. Who dare say I would turn this 
shop into a public-house ? I’ll be at the 
bottom of this, though it cost me a thousand 
pounds. Who hired ye to carry round the 
board, ye peetiful creature ? If ye don’t tell 
the truth I’ll commit ye to gaol this very 
meenut.” And the Bailie turned the battery 
of his Avrath upon London John, wlio was 
greatly flattered by his own prominent 
position and not at all concerned about the 
Bailie’s threat. 

“It was,” replied the Mercury of the 
Vennel, Avith great composure, “a big, stout 
man like yirsel’. Bailie, that gied me the 
boards and a shillin’; or, noo that I think 
about it, he AA^asiia so big, he AA^as a little man, 
and gey shilpit (thin) about the neck. Dod ! 
I’m no very sure, though, but that it Avas a 
Avoman Avi’ a red face and a shepherd’s tartan 
plaid ; at ony rate, if it AA^asna her it micht 
be a bit lassie wi’ bare head and feet; and 
I’m thinkin’ noo. Bailie, it was a bit lassikie, 
for she said to me, ‘ Have ye ever been in 
London ? ’ Noo, Bailie, I Avon Id like to tell 
you about London.” And if the police had 
not silenced London John, the Bailie at that 
moment Avould have had a fit of apoplexy, for 
it Avas evident that the trail was blind and 
there Avas no getting to the real person 
behind London John. 

The croAvd had listened Avith consider¬ 
able patience and self-restraint to this con¬ 
versation, but as soon as the hope of 
tea and refreshment died aAA’ay, and they 
realised that someone had fooled them, they 


looked out for a victim and settled upon the 
Bailie. 

“Ye should be asliamed of yourself,” and 
Tinkler Tam, standing out from the midst 
of the crowd, and sitting as it Avere upon the 
bench sentenced the Bailie in the dock. 
“ ILs a fine business to be playing tricks on 
the poor folk o’ MuirtoAvn, Avilin’ them 
from their Avork to Avaste their time at 
your shop-door and sendin’ them awa’ empty- 
handed. If it had been the first o’ April, 
and ye had been a laddie, I Avouldna hev 
said much aboot it ; but at your age, and 
yon a magistrate, to play sic a trick, it’s 
perfectly disgraceful. Ye ought to get a 
month’s hard laboui*, but aye thing’s sure, 
ye’ll no long be a Bailie o’ Muirtown. It 
Avas fearsome to hear ye askin’ London John 
Avho gave him the shillin’ Avhen he describit ye 
jnist as ye are standing ; then the puir body, 
Avhen ye threatened him, brought in the 
lassie. Man, though ye’re a Bailie and I’m 
]iaething but Tinkler Tam, I Avould scorn to 
makuse of a poor natural that hasna his Avits, 
juist to feed my vanity and gither a croAvd 
round my shop.” Then the croAvd united in 
three long groans, and possibly might have 
shown their indignation in a still more pro¬ 
nounced form, but the police, being still 
further reinforced, drove them along the 
streets, AAdiile the Bailie hid himself in the 
recesses of his shop. 

Three minutes later Spiug sauntered into 
the shop Avith HoAvieson and Bauldie and 
demanded a pennyworth of peppermint drops. 
He also remarked to Jock, as they Avere being 
folded up, “ If there be as mony o’ the Bailie’s 
friends callin’ at the shop on Monday, I 
doubt the police will no be able to spare a 
constable to keep order on the terrace.” And 
as a matter of fact the offensive patrol Avas 
Avithdrawn, and the Seminary resumed pos¬ 
session of the debatable ground. 























llhfstraM by (L Vernon-t^tohm and B. Boe>>e. 


A E 
caiiem,” 
especi¬ 
ally if lie 
be one of 
tlie “dogs of 
w a !•,” w h 0 s e 
sagacity and indomi¬ 
table courage are bis- 
• toric. Tncidents in the 
present war in South xlfrica, to- 
getlier witli personal experiences during 
ten years’ cainpaigniug as a war corre¬ 
spondent, I lave combined to suggest this 
passing glance at the achievements of dogs 
of war, past and present, and their probable 
uses ill connection witli the figliting of the 
future. Tu the early days of the "siege of 
Afafeking, Colonel Baden-Powell’s laconic 
telegram, “ Heavy cannonade continues— 
casualties, one dog killed,” will be fresh in 
everybody’s memory ; while tliat other dog 
recently found to be following our troops, 
wlien about to take a Boer position liy stealtli 
at midnight, is yet another up-to-date illus¬ 
tration of the devious wanderings of dogs on 
tlie warpatli. l^icture for one moment the 
discovery by that creeping, silent, almost 
breathless lirigade as they sealed that koj)jo, 
that there was a dog in their midst, tlie 
faintest yelp or howl or bark from which 
Avould discover them to the enemy. To 
shoot or even to strangle the intruder would 


have been fatal to their purpose, and chloro¬ 
form—the only thing to secure absolute 
silence—Avas, of course, unprocurable. There 
Avas only one chance — and in this even 
there Avas an element of great risk that he 
might bark from sheer jubilation—and that 
was to have him gently led bnck to camp 
and then secured, the lives of those troops 
having already been for some hours at the 
mercy of that too inquisitiA^c spaniel. By 
the Avay, the dog which folloAvs the fortunes of 
the Northumberland Fusiliers—the “Fight¬ 
ing Fifth ”—is a A^eteran who holds the record 
amongst dogs for gallant conduct at the 
front. At the battle of Omdurman and in 
the pacification of Crete he especially dis¬ 
tinguished himself, and he has but lately 
assisted at the relief of Kimberley. 

AYith a view to ascertaining more about 
the probable uses to Avhich dogs may in the 
near future be put for purposes of Avar, the 
German military authorities are conducting 
a series of most interesting experiments in 
Silesia for the purpose of testing the value of 
Avatch-dogs, their capability for carrying back 
a message from a reconnoitring party to the 
rear, conA^eying ammunition to a giA^en point, 
and barking—even in some cases “ pointing ” 
- on the discovery of wounded men Avho 
would have been ])robably unseen owing to 
rocky or Avooded surroundings, or otherwise 
playing some new, useful, and interesting 
part in connection Avith future campaigns. 


621 







THE WIXDSOn M Ad AZIN E. 


OTl 


For these iinportiint experiments, (leriiiciii 
pointers, sheep-dogs, collies, and spaniels 
have been chiefly in requisition. I have 
lately placed myself in commnnication 
with tlie Dnke of Argyll, who takes a 
^'ery deep interest in dogs as employed in 
modern warfare, and from his courteous 
reply 1 gather he is of opinion that, under 
certain circumstances, dogs may be trained 
as despatch-bearers and for the discovery of 
iieAvly turned earthworks, to a point at which 
their services may probably be iin aluable. 

The subject, at any rate, in reference to 


wlien I—then, I think, one of the youngest 
war artists at the front-made my first 
acquaintance, during the Commune, with the 
various preparations of poodle to which 
clever chefs gave such delightfully delusive 
titles on their menus^ that one felt that 
where ignorance was bliss it was folly to 
be wise. 

Or, again, I am reminded of experiences 
out in Asia Minor during the Ilusso- 
Turkish Avar. Let us look back to the 
autumn of 1877. The moon — a large yellow 
moon—is just rising above the irregular 



the yesteidciy, to-day, or to-morrow of our 
four-footed allies, is brimful of interest. 
From the earliest times we glean stories of 
dogs being connected AAuth campaigns. 
Xenophon tells of certain Spartan dogs 
Avearing huge spiked collars; indeed, at 
Marathon, one of these formidable beasts 
Avon such exceptional glory that his A'irtnes 
Avere recorded on his master’s tomb. The 
mere reference in recent des])atches to the 
liungry l)esieged residents of jMafeking 
having recourse not only to their horses, but 
to their dogs—the latter making “most 
excellent soup ”—takes me back to the time 


summit of the Deve-Boyun Pass, near Erze- 
roum, several other war correspondents and 
myself being on our Avay thence to Kars, now 
closely l)esieged by the Muscovites. AVe have 
crossed the pestilential fosse Avhich (for 
sanitary purposes !) is supposed to confine 
microbes to the suburbs, Avhile beyond us is a 
A^ast plain, a valley of rocks and boulders, 
beyond Avhich again the Deve-Hoynn (or 
camel-back) Ikiss Idocks the Avay. Ye gods 
of Olympus ! Avhat a feast of foul odours for 
the Avolves, vultures, bustards, carrion crows, 
and, above all, the man-eating dogs Avhich 
prowl, hover, and flutter in “ the glimpses 



JJOGS OF WAR. 


1)28 




of tlie moon ” round about 
the putrefying ])Oclies of 
camels and liorses yhich 
have been ejected liitlier 
for the city’s sanitation 
f 0 r s 0 ot b ! For e m o s t 
amongst tliose grim scaven¬ 
gers are tlie man-eaters— 
long, lank liounds that con¬ 
fine themselves in peace 
times to l)ody - snatching 
in T urkish graveyards, 
wliile in war they Avliet 
tlieir appetites in the fosse 
and ])anrjuet on tlie battle¬ 
field, with the result tliat 
tlieir backs and necks 
become raw and covered 
with sores, a revolting 
malady induced by eating 
human flesh. 

There were many 
strange stories current 
during the Russo-Turkisli 
war concerning the sagacity 
of dogs and the curious 
uses to which the Russians in some cases put 
them. I was myself at the front with Tod- 
lelien’s (4th) Division during the siege of 
Plevna, and heard more than one thrilling 
incident recounted concerning the devotion 
of dogs to their masters—true even unto 
death—dogs which, having, as in the Alps, 
followed through snow, ice, and blizzard 
during that Arctic winter on outpost duty, 
were frozen to death by their masters’ sides. 1 


TIIK DOG SPRANG AT HIM. 

distinctly remember when at Porodem how 
(though not all thus accompanied) seventy 
poor fellows thus perished at the front in 
one night in the great snow-girt circle of 
investment surrounding devoted Plevna, 
which from our point of view looked after 
dark like some huge cauldron of liquid fire— 
a very hell upon earth—while on its outer 
edge the Ice King field his grim sway, the 
elements seeming in devilish competition to 
crush those who had 
as yet escaped the 
fury of shot, shell, 
and sabre. 

It is also curiously 
interesting to trace 
the association of 
dogs in the past 
with war. There 
is a delightful and 
well - authenticated 
stoiy of the battle 
of Augrini,in which 
an Irish officer was 
accompanied by a 
faithful wolf-hound 
which fought with 
all the tenacity of 
its gallant master, 
who, towards the 
close of that hardly 
contested fight, was 
numbered amongst 


BLOODHOUNDS EMPLOYED IN THE MAROON WAR. 


G24 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


the slain. The grief of his four-footed 
favourite knew no l)Ouucls, and as the body 
was only discovered by heedless peasants and 
left in tiie long grass to rot, the officer’s chief 
nionrncr commenced a solitary vigil, in whicli 
he defeirled his master’s remains from 
sncli. carrion, birds or beasts, as miglit have 
prowled or fluttered around in quest of food. 
Indeed, had it not been for these oft-re¬ 
curring cojiflicts, which generally resulted to 
the advantage of the wolf-liound, he would 
have succumbed himself to starvation. From 
July to the following January did this faith¬ 
ful beast defend his master’s body on the 
spot where he had fallen, till he Avas one day 


HOAKirOUNDS ON OUAUl). 

disturbed by a passing soldier Avho came un- 
Avittingly so near the dead officer’s uoav 
bleached bones, that the dog sprang at him 
and pinned him to the ground. Ihit Avith 
one too Avell directed shot the faithful 
creature Avas laid low for ever by his 
master’s side. Then it AA’as that the story 
of that poor hound’s devotion eked out. 
Certain villagers there Avere at some distance 
from the spot avIio from time to time liad 
fed it, though, if they ventured too near, an 
ominous groA\d alAA\ays sent them scared aAvay. 

The fidelity of the dog was never more 
toncliingly exemplified than at the battle of 
Magenta, Avhere near a dead officer lay Ids 
Avounded hound, Avhich Avas seen to strain 


every nerve in its body to approach its master. 
This it eventually succeeded in doing, AAdien, 
having AAdth an extreme effort climbed on to 
his breast, it expired. 

Then, too, there is the equally Avell authen¬ 
ticated story of the dog of Montargis. Taa o 
officers of the King’s bodyguard—Aubrey 
de iMontdidier and Macaire—having pi’e- 
Adously had a desperate quarrel, met by 
cliance in a Avood near Paris. Aubrey de 
Montdidier, who had Avith him a favourite 
greyhound, Avas foully murdered by jMacaire. 
Noaa', the devotion Avith AA'liicli the dog clung 
to the spotAA'here his master had been hastily 
buried by his murderer, and the ferocity lie 
displayed toAvards 
the latter A\dien 
they came in con¬ 
tact, aroused the 
suspicions of the 
King, AA’lio decreed 
that a combat 
should take place 
betAveen Macaire 
and the hound in 
the neighbourhood 
of Notre Dame, 
before the Avhole 
Court, the condi¬ 
tions being that the 
dog should have an 
em])ty barrel into 
Avhich to escape, 
Avhile Macaire 
should be armed 
Avith a club. The 
result AA'as imme¬ 
diate and decisive. 
The dog with one 
bound seized his 
opponent by the 
throat, and the 
guilty man, thus 
staring Fate in the face, confessed his crime, 
and Avas only rescued from death by the 
hound’s jaAvs to be executed immediately 
after Avards. 

To the same branch of the subject 
belongs the story of King Pyrrhus, aaJio, 
finding one of his troops lying dead by 
the Avay—his dog AA^atching the body—and 
suspecting him to have been murdered, had 
recourse to the ex])edient—so Plutarch tells 
us—of having the men of that jiarticular 
regiment draAA^n up in the presence of the 
dog, AAdiich, Avheii let loose, made such 
saA'age attacks on ccidain of their numlAcr 
that inquiries Avere instituted, Avhen, though 
they did not confess (as in the similar 






J)0(}S OF WAR. 


(520 



A M n U r. A N ( J 10 C A H KIA G10. 


canine favourite, first Avitli 
the stripes of a corporal, 
and nltiniately with those of 
a full sergeant. 

(lerinany, however, as I 
have already implied, h facilp 
p'inrpp^ in her appreciation 
of the value of dogs in war, 
not oidy in searching for 
the wounded and barking at 



COIAJIO BARKING ON THPO DISCOVERY OF THE WOUNDED. 


case of Macaire and the dog of 
Montargis), they were nevertheless 
discovered beyond the shadow of a 
doubt to 1)6 guilty, and punished 
accordingly. 

A certain Signor de Eossi has 
made some very interesting experi¬ 
ments in connection with dogs,having 
invented, amongst other things, a 
canvas satchel, connected across the 
animars loins with a belt of light 
bent wood, intended for the convey¬ 
ance of ammnnition to the front, 
thus su])plementing the supply carried 
l)y troops. The Austrians claim for 
dogs a foremost place as path-finders 
and mountain guides, while the 
French in Algeria decorated a certain 













77 //; WlXDSOll MAGAZINE, 


()2(; 



IX THE ITAT.IAX AI.PS. 


tlieir discovery, but in carrying back to 
camp the cap or some otlier portion of 
the nniforin, and tlien leading the rescue 
party to tlie spot where the sagacious animal 
has made his find. Tlie 8t. Bernard is 
said to exercise tlie same intelligence lie 
displays at the liospEo, from which he 
derives his name—a flask being carried, 
to which, in this case, a roll of bandage, as 
will be seen in onr illustration, is added. 
The training of these dogs of war com¬ 
mences when they are about eight months 
old, and their education is supposed to have 


been completed by 
the end of their first 
year. Would that I 
could have tackled 
the minorvm, 

with equal success! 
How my early 
troubles would thereby 
have ])een lightened ! 

The method of instruction, 
too, is peculiar. The uniform 
of an enemy is worn by a 
soldier of the regiment, sufii- 
cieiibly padded to insure his 
safety. The dog, being set 
on to him, so worries it that 
the very sight of that uniform 
is sufficient in future to excite 
. .. . all the animars worst pas- 

sions, this being only, of 
course, with, the object of 
its use from a combative 
point of view. For the carriage 
of ammunition to the front, or for the 
conveyance of stores, the German boarhound 
and the Bussian Borzoi are considered the 
most useful beasts of burden. Light carts 
are alsa found convenient, to which these 
and other dogs—pointei-s, for instance—• 
are harnessed. 

Thus, in almost all Em’ 0 ])ean countries 
except England, dogs have their several 
positions in connection Avith Avar ; indeed, as 
scouts they have at times proved themselves 
more apt than their human allies. 

Amongst famous four-footed warriors may 


German Boarliouiul. 


Pointer. 



Bloodhound. 


Collie. 


DOGS OF WAR. 


JJOGS Oh' ir.l/.’. 


(•>■11 



ST. r.EKNAKI). 


be mentioned tlie mastiffs wbicli followed 
the footsteps of the Knigdits of Ithodes. 
These animals not only “ sniffed battle from 
afar,” but also recognised tlie peculiar odour 
of advancing Turks miles away. Nor must 
we forget" that the Dutch were much 
indebted to the services of dogs^ during 
the fighting in Acheen, and that it is an 
historical fact tliat a spaniel, opportunely 
barking at the moment of a pending attack 
on his camp, awakened AYilliam the Silent 
and thus averted a terrible catastrophe. 

In 17i)5 a liundred bloodhounds were 
engaged in the j\Iaroon war in the West 


Indies, forty Spanish Chasseurs being told off' 
to liold tliem in leash till such time as, in 
full cry, they made for the enemy ; but this, 
owing to their struggles, was found to be 
impossible, and so, dragging those Cliasseurs 
after them, they made such an impression 
on the foe that the latter were soon in rapid 
retreat. Indeed, it is recorded tha.t General 
Walpole reviewed this savage battalion with 
much pomp and circumstance—let us hope 
to their complete canine satisfaction. 

In the saiiguiuary war of extermination 
by the United States Government against 
the once powerful Seminoles, immense 



BORZOI HOUND. 















THE ]YlNl)EOll MAEAZJNE. 


028 



POINTER. 


11 umbers of bloodhounds were used, as, 
indeed, they were only a few years since 
against the Sioux Indians. 

In the Italian Alps the lonely sentinePs 
constant companion tlirongh the silent 
watches of the night is his dog, many 
instances having been quoted in whicli this 
four-footed patrol has been of inestimable 
service. 

From a military point of view dogs are an 
exemplary lighting force. They can live on 
very little ; are never disposed, however great 
the victory at which they have assisted, to 
diink too much ; and are as true to their 
friends as they are dangerous to their foes. 

At the present moment we are but tardily 
nearing the end of a war which has taxed the 
ability of great generals and the ingenuity 
of minor lights. From armoured trains, 
balloons, and pigeon-post, to tlie runner 
who dexterously hides messages in his hair, 
his ear, or one of his nostrils, we are 
practising every device almost under the sun 
in connection with the usages of modern 
warfare. I have said every device almost ” 
advisedly, since, though some few experi¬ 
ments have been made, the 
services of dogs in war lia\'e 
not certainly commanded sndi- 
cient attention. Surely while 
experiments on a peace footing 
are going on with dogs else¬ 
where, these same animals 
might be put to the test in 


actual warfare, in connection especially, I 
slionld say, with ambulance work. The 
historic dogs of St. Bernard, at least, might 
be of inestimable value in connection with 
the Eed Cross. 

This sketch has been intentionally dis¬ 
cursive, since I have endeavoured to embrace 
references to many lands and many periods, 
but if I have by one word served a 
good cause and at the same time interested 
the readers of the Windsoii Magazine, I 
shall be more than pleased that my experi¬ 
ences as a war correspondent have been 
brought to bear on a subject Avhich is 
worthy the serious consideration of our 
military advisers and experts, and one that 
has not, so far, had the ]n*oniinence given to 
it which in the cause of lighting humanity 
it deserves. 






















PRO PATRIA 

By max PEMBERTON* 

Illustrated by A. Forestier. 



CHAPTER XXY. 

I QUIT THE GARHET. 


ARLY 

on the 

folio 

lAvin g 

m 0 r 

n i n g 

Old 

Bois- 

d e f 

' f r c 

Avake< 

d me 

and 

began 

to be very 

busy, 

bust- 

ling 

about 

as one Avho 

car 

r i e d 

great 

tid- 

i ngs 

and 

Avas glad to 

tell them. 


“ Monsieur,” lie said, blurting it out at 
last Avith a splendour of gesture Avhicli 
delighted me, “ they have prepared an 
apartment for you downstairs. Permit an 
old man to be happy. I am to follow you, 
monsieur.” 

I Avent Avith him, very readily, you may 
be sure, and glad as he Avas, both to leave 
that dismal prison of the garret and to justify 
Lepeletier. After all, Agnes’s father Avas a 
soldier and a gentleman ; and I liad less to 
fear noAv that my case AA’as in his hands than 
Avhen it hung upon the caprice of the some¬ 
time madman, Jeffery. As for the new 
“ apartment,” if the outrage of my presence 
there Avere passed by, then had I little to 
complain of. Two small rooms, their 
AvindoAvs heavily barred, their doors clamped 
Avitli iron bars, AA^ere henceforth to be my 
lodging. They gave upon the Availed garden 
Avith the liorder of gillyflowers; and I 
thought that I should often, in imagination, 
see Agnes standing there, the sentinel of my 
hope, as those, the Frenchmen at the gate, 
Avere the sentinels of my liberty. 

But this Avas a note of fantasy, and else¬ 
where all was fact. AYelcome as I might the 
neAv atmosphere and the sjurit of it, the very 


* Copyriglit, 1900, by Max remberton, in the United 
States of America. 


629 


meaning of the change came early to trouble 
me. Lepeletier had s])oken of a month yet 
to be passed by me as a prisoner of the 
house. In a month, then, Jeffery’s A\nrk 
Avould be done—the veil cast aside ! And 
in a month my country Avould be in peril as 
she never had been before. Judge hoAV 
rarely my thoughts Avere of myself or of that 
which I, one of the least of the servants of 
England, must suffer. Aye, in all verity, 
beyond any thought of light or liberty (if it 
AAnre not for that Avhich liberty might Avin), 
beyond eA^en those conceits of my love which 
pictured Agnes in the garden, and would 
Aving her voice to me upon the breezes of the 
day, AAns this terror of the truth, this belief 
that an Englishman’s genius had at last 
permitted France to achieve her victory, that 
the pit indeed Avas digged, the sea thrust 
back, the ramparts of my country cast doAvn, 
it might be for ever. No longer could I 
doubt the Avay or the means, or those truths 
of the conspiracy Avhich so long had baffled 
me. The Nationalists of France, I said, 
those unresting madmen Avho cried ever in 
the French capital for change and ferment 
and revolution, Avho had never ceased to 
remember Fashoda, Avho had condemned 
Dreyfus to the living death, avIioaA'OuM stake 
all to cast doAvn the Republic Avhen their 
OAvn time came—these irreconcilables Aveie 
the secret power, feeding Jeffery and his 
schemes Avith their money and their pledges, 
compelling the Government to permit the 
Avorkings at Calais, themselves responsible for 
this surpassing hazard upon our shores, 
believing all, hoping all of the Avildest scheme 
a nation has devised for the conquest of 
another—these were the true enemies, these 
the plotters, the Jew-haters, the empire- 
seekers, the dreamers, the fanatics, the 
unresting rabble of a dead society AARich ever 
asked for a new order, and, AAunning it, Avere 
dreamers and fanatics still. And I AAns one 
against their intent and agency, one to cry 
the tidings to my country, one to lay down 
my life if thereby the secret might be 





080 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


known. For what hope had I of these 
powers, before which even the Cabinet of 
France had compromised and lost courage ? 
My life to them was not more precious than 
a leaf falling from a tree in the gardens of 
the house. To-day, to-morrow, they would 
kill me if they willed it, though a hundred 
Lepeletiers forbade. Tlie mercy that they 
showed me was the mercy of their confidence. 
Tlieir work was done and I was impotent to 
undo it. A month, and my dream would be 
the terrible day for England and lier people. 
I say again, I did not dare to think of it, 
feared to admit the truth, lest I should lose 
my reason. For the Channel wais England’s 
rampart no more. Deep down beneath the 
waters the secret lay in darkness; but 
to-morrow tlie doors of it might be opened 
and tlie daylight shine therein. Let me pass 
the thought and the suffering of it. Had 
1 to live such days again, I would account 
deadi a mercy, even now, wlien one stands 
heart to heart with me in tlie knowledge of 
that love by wliicli life is. 

t could see the gardens of the house, I 
say, from the windows of my rooms, and 
beyond tliem a belt of trees and the lulls 
which are the highlands of Thanet. By 
here and there, through remote vistas, work¬ 
men passed wdth wheelbarrows, and picks 
upon their shoulders ; and sometimes, when 
the day was very still, I could hear the 
clanging chains of a crane, the snorting of 
some little engine, and, in the hush of 
mystery, the mighty throbbing which had 
awed me long weeks ago at Calais. What¬ 
ever the work that was being done in the 
garden, many hands contributed to it; for I 
saw fresh faces always, and they were French 
for the most part, in spite of the honest 
corduroys they wore. Imagination showed 
me these men at their work in the dell of 
the thicket, it showed me the open shaft 
going downwards to the tunnel which France 
thrust out from Escalles, it shaped for me 
the excuses which Jeffery made to the few 
neighbours who could trouble him with their 
iiifpiisitions. A rich man huilding a lake in 
his grounds ! Who would forbid, who say 
him nay ? If the police came to the Kiver 
Bottom Farm, Avhat story could they carry 
away from it ? Would they, looking down 
into a pit which these Frenchmen had 
digged, so much as imagine one paltry 
possibility which came of such a labour, or 
find in it one shadow of excuse for act or 
word against the owner of the house ? I 
knew that they could not—I knew that one 
man alone, Harry, my friend, might make his 


voice heard ; and he was silent, he must be 
silent, or why did I remain there, a prisoner 
of the farm ? Aye, I had a hundred excuses 
for Harry, but never a guess at the truth. 
He would not forget me—perchance the 
same hand which had struck at me had 
struck him down. I could but wait and 
hope on, as men will, even though that hour 
of their hope is the last they have to live. 

They were sunny days, those days of the 
terror in that kindly month of September ; 
and I began, I think, to count them at last 
as a schoolboy counts the days which 
intervene before holiday must come. That 
Jeffery was no longer in Kent I felt assured; 
for old Boisdeffre did not so much as name 
him, and the better treatment Le])eletier 
had ordered for me was pursued and even 
improved upon by my honest old jailor. 
I had a longing for the sun and the air, it is 
true, and the torture of the conffnenient Avas 
not to be mitigated by the vista of the 
autumn’s golden woodlands seen from the 
Avindows of my room; but the food Avas 
good, and old Boisdeffre and I Avould gossip, 
and he Avould tell me stories of the Commune, 
and I the stories of my college days, and, 
neither understanding wholly, Ave would 
laugh together and say that nations quarrel 
Avhere the peoples are friends. Once, I 
remember, I sought to beg a newspaper of 
him—a step toAvard a deeper design Avhich 
began to come into my mind; but he excused 
himself Avith the old plea, and his gesture aaiis 
as delightful as ever. 

“ Do not think of it, monsieur ; there are 
those who seek an excuse. Do not help them ; 
tliey Avatch ahvays ; there is no hope for that; 
they are too clever; they AAmuld be glad of it, 
monsieur, glad as I should be sorry. Let us 
go on as Ave go noAv. It is wiser, safer. And 
the chief comes back to-day. For Heaven’s 
sake do not anger him, monsieur ! ” 

I expressed no surprise, nor pursued the 
argument, for I kneAV that he spoke of 
Jeffery’s return ; and an hour had not 
passed Avhen the door of my room Avas 
bnrst open violently and Jeffery himself 
came staggering toAvards me Avith an in¬ 
coherent Avord upon his lips. He Avore a 
travelling cape and a little cap to match, but 
his face had the old malign expression, and I 
understood that this AA^as one of tliose moods 
of anger and of madness Avhich Boisdeffre 
so greatly feared. But I Avas not afraid of 
him, either then or at any hour of it, and 
to my contempt I hold that my sah^ation 
is owed. 

He stood before me, I witness, and for a 


PRO PATRIA, 


m 



“ He raised his cane and struck the old fellow a licavy blow.” 


little while his temper was so masterful that 
he could not utter a coherent word, hut 
swayed from side to side and clenclied his 
fists and looked murder, if ever a man looked 
it in this world. AVlieu at last he could 
speak, a tremendous effort l)roui>:lit liim to 
the old maimer, and he was like an animal 
])urring with pleasure of his prey. 

“8o, my son, you’ve changed your quarters, 
ell ? made yourself nice and tidy, have you ? 
By Jove! you’re a man that don’t care much 
about your life, do you ? ” 

I said not a word, but stood close up to 
him, for I thought that he meant a blow’. 
The defiant attitude kept him at arm’s length. 
He took a step backw’ards and turned to 
l^oisdeffre. 

“You hound!” he cried savagely. “AYhat 
do you mean by this ? ” 

Old Boisdeffre w’as as w’hite as death, but 
he could speak for himself, nevertheless. 

“ The Colonel’s order, monsieur ; lie has 
been in England ; he is at Folkestone still. 
Send for him and ask.” 

“ I’ll cut his tongue ! AVho’s master, do 
you think ? Whose house is it ? Did he 
do the w’ork or did I ? Who sent him this 
road ? ” 

He raised bis cane and struck the old 


fellow’ a heavy blow’ across the forehead. As 
they closed together, locking arms and hands, 
tliey rolled through the open door, and it 
W’as shut in my face as I sprang to the old 
man’s help; but in the same moment,looking 
dow’ii into the garden, I beheld Lepeletier 
himself there, and I knew^ that he and 
Jeffery w’ould meet and that the understand¬ 
ing would be then or never. And it came 
to me suddenly that by the anger and 
madness I might come to the light, and 
that before the hour w^as passed the 
questions I had so often asked Avould be 
answered for ever. 

For it W’as life or death for me then; even 
as it Avas life or death for one of the tAvo that 
met in the garden. 


CHAPTEB XXVI. 

THE MEETING IN THE GAEHEX. 

The men Avould meet, the one young in 
anger and saA’age mania, the other a broken 
old man, Avho, Avilly-nilly, had been draAA’n 
to this mad emprise. As I Avatched the 
Colonel, standing there in the garden Avith 
the sunshine upon his kindly face, the 
fatality of the day fascinated me beyond all 

















THE WINBSOR MAGAZINE. 


i\?r2 

woi'ds. Jeffery, the jncidnicin, would kill 
liim, I said. And lie, all unconscious, was 
coming on to meet tlie assassin, a pathetic 
ligure of that autunm day, with all the old 
gentleness and courtesy of deed and manner 
tliat had won my fi’iendship at the first. 
Desii’e and will to help him began to prove 
stronger even than any hope for my country 
that might come of that encouuler. For 
how could I remember anything else but 
this fact, that a soldier walked blindly there 
to insult, if not to death ? One word might 
save his life. 1 took a heavy ornament 
from the mantelpiece, and, the window of 
my room being bolted to the casement, I 
smashed the glass with a blow. Then I 
cried twice to Lepeletier to look out for 
himself— and Jeffery entered the garden. 

There was a Frenchman at my elbow (one 
I had never seen lief ore) almost with the 
crashing of the glass, and others stood in the 
doorway ; but high words in the garden 
arrested them, and, it being })lain that I 
liad made no attempt to escape, they all 


stood with me to watch the scene below the 
windows. ('olonel Lepeletier himself, a 
bent figure no longer, but one upright and 
bold as that of any trooper, listened to 
Jeffery’s angry complaints with a disdain 
which c\'ery gesture made moi’e sure. The 
half-caste, in his turn, trembled with rage 
and anger uneonti’ollable, and his speech, at 
the first wild and blasphemous, became aiion 
almost a scream of defiance and insult. To 
Lepeletier, as to me, the mad plea was the 
same. We had conspired to rol) him of his 
machine, we were allies together to that end ; 
and Lepeletier, he said, had betrayed his 
country, was the traitor in their camp and 
should hang for it presently. It was then 
that the Colonel raised his cane and struck 
him. 

A loud cry, an oath, a scuffle, and the 
men were locked as in some devilish 
embrace from which death alone should 
deliver them. I saw them reeling, bending, 
striking ; I heard Jeffery’s savage oaths—I 
knew by a sure instinct what the end must 



“ I looked up to find myself alone with Jeffery, who carried a lantern.” 






PRO PATRIA. 


683 


be. For it was youth against age, madness 
against sanity, the knave against the gentle¬ 
man—and the knave must win. Impulse to 
go down to the aid of a brave man surged 
up at last as a force of will irresistible ; but 
there were two of the guards upon me at the 
first step toward the door, and when the 
three of us staggered to our feet again, 
bloody and dusted from head to foot, one 
man alone stood up in the garden. That 
man was Robert Jeffery, who held an Italian 
poniard in his left hand, and cleaned the 
blade of it with a wisp of grass. 

The Colonel had fallen full in the sun¬ 
light, his head half buried in those very 
gillyflowers he tended not an hour ago. A 
red stain of new blood spread and glistened 
upon his linen and made a black patch upon 
the right sleeve of his grey coat. He did 
not move nor appear to breathe. The men 
with me in the room remained there a little 
while, as though robbed of their faculties ; 
but presently a bell rang loudly in the hall 
below and they went away all together. 

I stood at the window as one afraid to 
see or to know. What would come of it ? 
How would their crime be cloaked ? What 
would little Agnes say or do to-night ? For 
my first thought was of her -- a thought of 
sorrow so great that even a man might have 
sanctified it with tears. She stood alone 
now—a child against the world. And I 
should never see her more. 

The body lay out in the sunshine, and no 
man came near it. There was confusion in 
the house, the tramping of feet, the angry 
note of voices, a going to and fro betAveen 
the farm and the woods. The work in the 
grounds appeared suddenly to be interrupted. 
I beheld many of the engineers coming 
quickly out of the thicket, and all together 
they went to the rooms below me. But to 
the pleasure-garden no one turned ; nor did 
any appear to remember the dead or seek to 
hide the body. Some greater, graver peril 
menaced them, I said. For one instant, 
beyond the veil of doubt, I perceived a 
light to shine, but would not look at it. It 
could not be that—that ultimate hope which 
should send me to the world again! A 
thousand chances stood against the thought 
—it could not be ! 

I breathed the quicker for daring to think 
of it, and tried to shut the bloody figure of 
the garden from my eyes; but all unavailingly. 
Some evil power of the desire to see kept me 
pacing the room, unrestingly, driven noAV to 
the shadoAA'S where the thing Avas hidden 
from my sight, noAV to the AvindoAV again to 


be sure that the body had not moved nor 
life returned to it. Wbat cruelty left the 
dead man there, those beloAV alone could 
answer. Did they fear nothing that their 
victim lay in the grounds, uncovered, un¬ 
tended, unburied, for the first stranger to 
discover and to rush affrighted Avith the tale 
upon his lips ? The greater Avitness, I said, 
that the garden AA^as Avatched as no garden of 
Kent before or since. Even a bloAV upon 
my Avindow liad fetched the Avatchers to my 
side—no Avord, I kneAV, could be spoken in 
that house but some ready ear Avould catch 
it. What folly, then, to belieA^e that the 
secret of the garden Avould be read by hostile 
eyes ! There AA^as no hope of that; only the 
enduring pity of death, the pity which those 
must ever win avIio go before us to the 
eternal mysteries. 

I imagined that the secret lay safe, I say ; 
but, nevertheless, the desire of its discovery 
made the hours of that fateful day the 
longest I had endured in all those Aveary 
Aveeks of doubt and Avaiting. There was no 
minute of the lingering afternoon Avliich 
found me Avilling to think of food or rest, or 
even of the danger AAdiich Lepeletier’s death 
might bring to my door. I, at least, had 
been a Avitness of the deed, and sooner or 
later they AAmuld silence me ; but for the 
meantime their loud voices, their hurried 
footsteps spoke of panic among themselves ; 
and in their panic all my hope of safety lay. 
When, about the hour of sundoAvn, a neAV 
stillness fell upon the house, and the clamour 
of the voices ceased, I Avas as much afraid of 
the silence as erstwhile I had been of the 
outcry. What new turn had stilled their 
tongues ? I asked ; AAdiy did none come near 
me ? Were they contemplating my death, 
or Avas the greater peril at hand—the final 
peril as I had Avitnessed it in my dream ? As 
I live and Avrite, it came to me in that 
dreadful hour that the Avork AA-as done Avhich 
linked England to France, and that the 
armies of France might even then be 
marching beloAV the Channel seas. In fear I 
heard the phantom steps ; the earth beloAV 
me quaked as Avith a neAV sound Avhich man 
had never heard before. It Avas the end, I 
said, the end inevitable—the day of the 
dreams Avhich had come to me since first I 
passed the gate afc Escalles and knew the 
secret. 

Darkness fell a little early that afternoon, 
and after a glorious red-gold sunset, Avhich 
made the leaves of the creepers about my 
AvindoAVS seem to drip Avith Idood, and struck 
upon the face of the dead man as though to 

2 X 


634 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


shroud it with a pall of fire, I quitted my 
window for a moment and went, 1 know not 
why, to the door of the room, as though I 
would go straight out to the garden and do 
that wliich others had feared to do. Not 
for an instant did I imagine that the door 
was not locked and bolted, or that the 
sentinels were not, as ever they had been, 
upon the landing beyond; but when, without 
a thought of it, I put my hand upon the 
latch, the door opened at tlie touch, and 
there was tlie house before me, as still and 
silent and unpeopled, it appeared, as any 
house of the dead. There is no word at my 
command to express tne mingled emotions of 
prudence and joy to whicli this discovery 
moved me. Freedom ! My God ! Avas it 
that ? Had the French, indeed, withdrawn 
covertly from the house and left me there 
Avith the body ? or Avas it but a trap, after all, 
and Avere those Avho Avished my death in 
the shadoAVs of the darkened hall beloAV ? 
Caution (and many have charged me Avith 
that) sent me back to the shelter of the room 
headlong. I thought that there were men 
upon the stairs, many men Avaiting in the 
darkness for my passing. The desire was 
noAV to shut myself aAvay from them, and I 
closed the door of my room and set a heavy 
chair against it. The tAAdlight fell quickly 
as the clouds of storm gathered in the fleecy 
sky above the doAvnlands. I could scarcely 
discern the body of Oscar Lepeletier, and for 
long I strained my eyes, peering out over 
that lonely garden ; but the body Avas gone 
—I AA^as sure of it at last. They had carried 
tlie dead man away Avhile I stood Avondering 
at the empty staircase. 

This neAV discovery, the open door, the 
enduring silence Avhich made the moaning 
Avind the melancholy cry of the night, and 
set me starting at every leaf Avhich beat 
against my AvindoAv-pane, Avere the last bloAvs 
upon my courage and my purpose. Eemem- 
ber that I Avas long Avithout food or drink— 
for old Boisdelfre had failed me since the 
morning, and now I sat, fearful as I had 
never been, helpless, Avithout idea, in the 
gathering darkness of my room. Who, 
then, had carried the body aAvay ? I asked. 
Tliere Avere men in the house still, or tlie 
AA'ork Avould have remained undone. And 
those men Avaited for me in the silent 
corridors below. Or had they, indeed, gone 
to the tunneFs mouth; and', anon, Avould 
those gardens awake to the tramp of count¬ 
less feet, be alive with the presence of the 
hosts of France, witness the beginning of the 
dreadful day ? Aye, think of it as I thought 


then. The open door ! Liberty so- near. 
Death at hand as I passed the danger by. 
])o you Avonder that I shrank back, more 
fearful of the truth than of the peril Avhich 
surrounded me. For if the truth Avere this, 
then had England’s hour of trial come at 
last to deliver her for ever, or for ever to 
cast her down. 

A full hour passed, and I did not move 
from my prison or seek to dare the darkness 
of the hall beloAV. Tliere is a silence of a 
lonely house unlike any silence that you may 
find even in the remotest countiy or the 
thickest forest; a silence Avhich makes 
minutes of the hours ; in Avhich you can 
number every breath you take ; Avlieii the 
tick of a clock is like a human voice ; AAdien 
you imagine other sounds, muted steps upon 
the stairs, shadowy figures about you ; the 
shapes of those Avho have lived and died, 
hoped and schemed in tlie very room you 
occupy. Such a silence I knew in the Kiver 
Bottom House in that hour of vigil which 
came Avith the night. A. hundred times I 
thought to hear men upon the stairs and 
even to detect their movements as they 
Avaited in the darkness. Every Avhisper of 
the AAund carried a neAV Avarning—the note 
of a Aveird voice crying to me from the 
Avorld Avithout. Strained ears, seeking the 
truth from the Avood beyond the garden, 
sent me again and again to the broken glass 
of my AvindoAv to listen for those AALom any 
minute might betray—the first of the armies 
of France debouching from the very earth 
to the shores of England. What matter of 
surprise if I peopled those Avoods already 
Avith tlie flitting apparitions Avhich a brain 
overwrought could shape for me ? I believed 
that I saw the hosts of France, and, 
believing, I said that all AA^as lost. 

And thus it Avas for a full hour at the 
least—this overmastering dread of the liouse 
and the silence and the night. Long Avith¬ 
out food, enervated by Aveeks of close 
confinement, the neighbour of apprehension 
often, I marvel hoAv it came at last that I 
had courage to quit my room and to take a 
feAV steps, hesitatingly, down toward the 
mystery and the darkiiess beloAv. Yet so it 
befell, and Avhen the hour AA-as over, and the 
gong below struck nine o’clock, I found 
myself driven by some neAv impulse away 
from the windoAv and the moonlit garden 
(Avhere I fancied still to see Lepeletier’s 
body), down to the hall, and to that knoAV' 
ledge Avhich could not surpass the terror of 
the doubt. If men Avaited there (as the 
voice of Prudence argued), the voice of 


PRO PATRIA. 


685 


Curiosity said, Better the men than the 
silence. Tliat which I liad to fear from 
them was as greatly to be feared in the 
room as face to face with them in the hall 
below. And so I went, stealthily, with a 
heavy hand upon the balustrade and a heart 
pumping like an engine. Remember what I 
had seen, and judge me with generosity. 

Stair by stair, step by step, now drawing 
back when a banister creaked, now starting 
at the touch of a figure of stone, anon taking 
courage and going quickly, I came down at 
last to a floor of flags where the fanlight of 
a door showed a ray of the moon’s beams, 
and the clear heaven above the gardens had 
all the aspect of a vista of stageland. Here 
I stood for a full minute, listening with a 
good ear for the sound even of a man 
breathing—it may be, beginning to believe 
in the tremendous hope that I might be 
alone in the house, the forgotten prisoner of 
those Avlio had fled. And Avhile I stood, 
the ultimate fear came upon me, for I knew at 
last that I was not alone ; and when I put out 
my hand, the hand of another, cold as death 
and clammy to the touch, caught my fingers 
in a grip of iron, and I was thrown suddenly 
backAvard upon tlie flags. And so for a full 
minute I lay half stunned, nor could I even 
hear the breathing of the man Avho had 
throAvn me. 

The minute passed ; there was a shuffling 
of feet ill the hall, the clang of an iron 
door, and then light. I looked np to find 
myself alone Avith Jeffery, Avho carried a 
lantern in his hand. 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

A JANGLING- BELL. 

He held a lantern in his hand, and AA^ore 
the rough clothes of his calling, smeared Avith 
mud and grease, and Avhite Avith the chalk of 
the pit. Feeble as the rays of the candle 
Avere, they shoAved me many doors giving off 
the hall, and the greater door of the house, 
barred and bolted as the gate of a prison. 
I lay Avithin a foot of this door, and beyond 
it Avas liberty. The man read my thoughts, 
and his drunken humour mocked them. 

“ Groing to your friends outside, eh, 
Captain ? Well, I guess not. If it’s hell, 
we’re on the road togetlier. Get up, my boy 
—AA^ant a Avord Avitli you.” 

He AA'liipped a reAmlver from his liip- 
pocket and covered me Avith it. I could see 
the reflection of the light running doAvn the 
barrel as a jet of golden Avater. ElseAvherc 


there Avas utter silence. For a reason I had 
no measure of, his friends had fled the house. 
We AA^ere alone together, and 1 kneAv that 
one of ns Avould not be alive to-morroAv. 

“ A dozen Avords, if you like,” said I, 
playing his OAvn part Avhile I could, ‘‘ but it’s 
not much of a rendezvousP 

He set the lantern down and opened a door 
upon his left hand. When he had closed the 
shutters upon the AvindoAVS he came back 
and invited me to folloAV him. Within the 
room there W'as all the confusion of a flight 
—draAvers turned out, chairs at hazard, 
rubbish upon the table. 

‘‘So,” he cried (and his air AA^as that of a 
man aaAio had a hundred things to think of 
and all of them pressing), “ so yon got the 
story out, eh, my boy ? What did you give 
Boisdeffre—the hound !—Avhat did you give 
him ? ” 

I sat doAvn upon a sofa, for I Avas still 
dizzy with the fall, and tried to hide from 
him all that his confession meant to me. 
But in my ears the Avords rang loudly, “ The 
story is out.” Good Heavens ! Avhat had he 
said ? 

“ Charge Boisdeffre Avitli nothing,” I 
cried ; “he knoAA’s as much about it as 
you do. He was ahvays faithful to your 
interests. You AAmn’t be able to say that of 
many to-morroAV.” 

“ To-morroAV ! All my life has been to¬ 
morrow ! ” 

I did not pity him, but understood that 
desperate cry. 

“ Whose fault is that ? ” I asked un¬ 
sympathetically. “ You had your chances ; 
some of us don’t get them. When you came 
over here you kneAV what you risked. I told 
you so at Calais, I tell you so again to-night. 
Leave the place and forget it. You have no 
choice. To-morroAV others Avill have their 
say. I shouldn’t Avait for them if I Avere 
you.” 

He looked at me cynically, cocking and 
nncocking the pistol as though he had 
forgotten it. 

“ You’d have made a good parson, Alfred 
Hilliard—on my Avord, you Avould. AVhen I 
first saAV you at Calais I took you for one of 
the AA’liisky-and-soda sort—AAune and roses 
and Avomen, and more clothes at home than 
your man could steal. You AA^ent one better, 
I guess. You’ve a beastly obstinate liead of 
your oAvu, I’m thinking, and you’re like the 
rest of ’em, quick enougli to dance AAdien the 
drums begin. Will it help you, boy ? Aye, 
ask that. The shaft’s doAvn there beloAV 
Dover. If we don’t open it to-day AA^e’ll 



086 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


open it to-morrow. What’s the gain to yon ? 
One year or three—I’ll bring the French np 
on Dover cliffs yet, if I give my life to it.” 

A good many have done that—Napoleon 
was one of them. I’d find another vocation, 
Jeffery—it wonld pay better. Yon were an 
Englishman yourself once. Do you never 
remember that ? ” 

A hard expression came upon the man’s 
face. He rocked to and fro upon his heels 
as a man half dizzy. AVhat his true thoughts 
were that night. Heaven knows. 

“ Yes,” he said presently, “ I remember it, 
Alfred Hilliard—an Englishman, hounded 
out for being as Fate made him. Well, we’ll 
write it off some day. You and I can do 
something that way to-night. Say, boy, did 
you think I was going to open the door ?” 

‘‘ I thought you Avonld be wise to.” 

“ Ah, for you to walk right out to the 
little French girl at Folkestone ! Nice and 
pretty. Captain. The pair of you billing and 
cooing while I go under. And my brains to 
find the money. Oh, I like that. Captain 
Alfred, that’s my line all over. Say, do you 
know the police are outside this house now ? ” 

My heart gave a leap; I could have 
shouted at his news ; but the will to risk 
nothing kept me passive before him. 

“ Wiiat else do you expect ? ” I asked. 
“ Do you suppose tliis sort of thing is to be 
done without raising someone’s curiosity ? 
Of course they are here. I wonder they 
didn’t come a month ago. If you hadn’t 
been blind, you’d have seen it from the 
first.” 

He nodded his head as though acquiescing. 

“ I told them it would not be the first 
time. AVc shall find another story next turn, 
and another house. And you won’t be alive 
to draw a woman into it. But I’ll look after 
her when I’m through with you.” 

I could have struck him down then, as 
much for the unspoken insult as for the 
manner of his threat; but all the over¬ 
mastering reaction, the knowledge that the 
story was told, that my country, for the day 
at least, was saved, kept my mind at such a 
tension of fever that I had no other wish 
than to hear his confession to the end. 

‘‘Alive or dead, I don’t count,” was my 
response. “ Remember that you are at Dover 
and not at Calais. It makes all the difference 
to-night, Jeffery. There is still the sea to 
cross.” 

The taunt awakened him to a new out¬ 
burst. 

“ How do you know,” he cried loudly, 
“ how do you know that the French are not 


coming through this very minute ? Listen, 
lad—what sound is that ? Is it troops or the 
night wind ? You can’t tell—gosh ! you 
play the pretty fool Avhen I wish it.” 

He raised his hand for silence, and I 
listened with ear intent. There were men 
moving in the gardens ; you could count 
their footsteps. The house was surrounded ; 
but by whom ? I kneAV no more than the 
dead whether the man I talked to were 
playing the jester or the madman. Yet 
what suspense and fear hung upon the 
truth ! 

“It appears,” I said at last (and, I am 
sure, with as Avhite a face as ever woman 
carried out of clmrcli), “it appears that the 
police are before their time. Don’t yon 
think you’d better anticipate them ? ” 

He treated it with a gesture of defiance. 

“ When they come,” he snarled, “ they’ll 
find a pair of us, sonny—you on one side the 
fender and me on the other. Pretty picture, 
eh ? Do you think I’m fool enough to live 
over the day that sees my work go under ? 
No, as Heaven is above me, I’ve attempted 
the biggest thing man ever set his hand to, 
and I’ve shown my masters that I can do it. 
If it’s nothing to have done that much, very 
well; but the world may call it otherwise. 
What are your idlers worth—your singing 
birds, who never see the scissors on their 
hair; your fiddle scrapers, who kiss the 
women; your ranters in Parliament and your 
ranters out of it ? What good do they 
do ? Is the world richer for them ? I 
guess not. Wipe ’em aU out to-morrow 
with decent tombstones, and you and I 
won’t miss as much as a postage-stamp. 
No, sonny, it’s the workers, the men who 
think in iron and steel, who make countries. 
Look at it any way—what’s the sea against 
me and my shield ? AYe roll her up as 
Pharaoh and the boys did wilderness way. 
Give me three days yet, and I’ll land a 
hundred thousand men on your shores. 
Free or taken, I don’t care a rap for Eng¬ 
lish or French or chimpanzee. I’ve done 
the work, and it’ll stand your generation 
and your son’s and your grandson’s after 
that. There’s no other living man that 
could have done it—and they called me 
‘ black,’ the swine! AYell, I’ll wipe the 
ground with them some day, as I promised 
you. I did the work, and look at it—this 
house wouldn’t have been searched until the 
Day of Judgment but for you and the 
petticoats that you couldn’t keep clear of. 
Why did you cross my path—old ‘ Panther,’ 
of AYebb’s, that didn’t love you sixteen years 







TnB WINDSOR MAGAZINN 


m 

ago and don’t love yon any more to-day ? 
A\liy did you come in with your blasted 
curiosity and your lamb’s mug and that 
bulldog tootli of yours wliich hxed at 
Escalles ? Weren’t there two roads in life, 
or did you find my road the prettier ? Ah, 
Bobby JefPery takes second place ; he isn’t 
good enougli for the white man. There isn’t 
one of ’em living that could do his work, 
but he isn’t good enough for ’em—too fond 
of a sip, like many another that lias brains 
to feed and isn’t pig’s-meak The drink did 
Bobby Jeffery, did it ? But that’s a lie, pal, a 
lie, as sure as you hear thelioys in the garden 
yonder. Haven’t I lived ? AVhy, yes. I’ve 
done that; lived in what I saw and Avorked 
for, and the drink helped me. Say, sonny, 
have a glass now—it’ll lielp us in Avhat’s to 
come. I never thought of it—I was reckon¬ 
ing up your friends all the time,” 

Now, he had dropped into this strange, 
maudlin self-appreciation, for all the Avorld 
as a man talking to himself in all the 
sentimentality and candour of a drunken 
argument; nor could I interrupt him, for he 
told me a page of the story of the strangest 
life I have ever known. And never surely 
was tale related under circumstances so 
Aveird, or to a man Avith mind so confused. 
The AA^an light, the dark hall beyond the 
door, the shuttered room, the figure of the 
man, his bloodshot eyes, his hawk-like hands, 
his AA'Oolly hair^—the maze-like labyrinth of 
his thought, now going straight to a heart 
of reason, noAv blindly to a cut-de-sac of self- 
appraiseinent; and upon all this the sure 
knoAAdedge tliat at any moment he might 
seek my life, and that there Avere men in the 
gardens without—all this, I say, made an 
liour Avhicli neither I nor any man may 
ever find again in the Avhole book of con¬ 
spiracies. Wonder not that henceforth I 
believed no Avord of Ids, AA'as not surprised 
at any threat. I could but Avait and Avatch 
Avith a resignation Avldcli amazes me Avhen I 
recall it. Even Avhen the man had his pistol 
upon the table and turned to a cupboard for 
glasses and a bottle, there Avas no thought of 
escape in my mind, even though I sat up to 
watch, him. But he read tlie moA^ement 
otherAvise and turned upon me sharply. No 
Westerner in a tavern braAAd could have 
Avllipped up his revolver so deftly. 

‘‘ No,” he snapped, “ not that, Alfred 
Hilliard. Play the game. AVe’re going 
through this thing together—play it as a 
pal.” 

I sat very still, amused almost at his 
notion of a compact. 


“ As you like,” I said. “ Your friends 
outside are not so patient. The game had 
lietter go quickly, or it Avill be a draAv. Ha ! 
they mean to come in, it appears.” 

A loud jangling bell rang out suddenly 
in a remote corridor of the empty house. I 
started to my feet at the sound, and could 
have counted my heart beating Avhile AA^e 
Avaited. He had a decanter in his hand, and 
he stood, AAuthout Avord or movement, 
listening to the sounds. 

“ AVell,” I asked at last, “are you going 
to open to them, or Avill you let them beat 
the door down ? They Avill be inside in five 
minutes. A¥hat then ? If it’s Avorth any¬ 
thing, I’ll do the best I can for you, but you 
haven’t mucli time.” 

Again lie did not ansAA^er me directly, but 
poured himself out a quantity of spirit and 
drank it at a gulp. Someone beat loudly 
AA’ith a truncheon upon the great liall door, 
and Jeffery spoke as though in ansAA^er to 
the signal. 

“Aye, knock aAvay, you idiot—there’s 
more than a club AA^anted to raise my hinges. 
And Avhere’Si the rest of you ? Down 
under, maybe—aye, doAvn under digging 
for my brains. Well, you shall find ’em, 
my boys. We’ll go to.hell together, eA^ery 
SAvine that comes here ; Ave’ll take a 
parlour-car, and no differences. Say, Alfred, 
laddie, did you think I Avas to be taken like 
an old hen sitting ? No, you didn’t think 
it. The black man’s something in his head 
besides that—he AA^as an Englishman once, eh ? 
—Avell, he’s going to be an Englishman noAV. 
He’ll die quiet, sonny, as quiet as the best of 
’em. And he’ll take his brains Avith him. 
Tliey had no room for ’em in this rotten 
country—they made a Frenchman of him ! 
AVell, he’ll sIioav ’em something yet—by the 
Heavens above him, he’ll shoAV ’em Avhere 
his pals are coming through.” 

A louder knocking upon the outer door, 
the sound of a hatchet striking one of the 
AvindoAVS close by my chair, cut short the 
almost incoherent threats Avdiich fell from 
the man’s lips. For one long moment he 
stood, sweat on his broAA^, tlie glitter of 
madness in his eyes, a helpless, hunted expres¬ 
sion upon his malign face, as of one in a 
terrible torture of doubt and fear Avhich 
almost paralysed his faculties and Avould 
overthroAV his reason before it had done Avitli 
him. Then, anon, as though the crashing 
bloAA^s brought him to action, he turned 
SAviftly, and his trend)]ing fingers Avere 
stretched out to take my life, and liis, and all 
that Averc about that house. 


PRO PATRIA. 


039 



I was as a man nailed to the ground.” 


There was a little cupboard upon liis right 
hand, a cupboard resembling nothing so 
much as a letter-box ; and this was now the 
resting-place for his trembling fingers. 
Unaware of his purpose (and this a thing 
beyond all my reckoning), I stood, held to 
the place by indescribable excitement, while 
he unlocked the cupboard door and showed 
me, within it, the brass clasps of an electric 
switch and the twisted wires which ran from 
it. In a tremendous revelation, as ^ the 
truth of death brought to the mind in a 
flash, I understood tlie purpose _ of those 
wires and what lie would do with them. 
They linked Ids hand and the mine prepared 
in tlie thicket of the wood. As he had 
promised that Ids secret should never be 
known in England, so would he perform. 
He had but to touch the button of that 
switch, and the tuimers mouth would be no 
more. Tlie victory was his, the victory of 
the mind over men, of a will indomitable in 
the one purpose. No one who had dared 
the thicket where the secret lay would 
emerge any more to speak of it. And he 
would live to make it a secret anew, the 
terror rehabilitated, the peril which carried 
me to this house and might never carry me 
from it. 

I say that he opened the door of the box, 
and stood before it with the glitter of mad¬ 
ness in his eyes, but odd words of sanity 
upon his lips. Though I knew what he 
would do, though death was at my very 
elbow, so potent was the spell of amazement 


and discovery that I 
stood there, unable to 
lift a hand or raise a 
cry or do anything but 
watch him in dumb 
despair. AVhen free¬ 
dom came, when the 
voices of those without 
quickened my faculties » 
as they had quickened 
his, I sprang upon him 
with all the strength 
God has given me and 
sought to pin him by 
the throat. But he 
shook me off with the 
fury of a madman, 
and, stumbling in 
my maladroit attempt, 

I fell headlong at 
his feet, and he 
touched the brass and 
sparks flashed from the 
wires. 

“ To hell together, Alfred Hilliard—to 
hell together ! ” 

The'words rang out as tlie lingering cry 
of a man cast from the world suddenly to 
darkness and to death. Slowly at first, anon 
with a terrible force which seemed to turn 
the very brain, the ground began to quake 
beneath us, to roll and pitch as the waves of 
the sea. I heard a dull, sustained roaring as 
of an avalanche falling ; the^ house itself 
rocked to its foundations ; split as a whole 
thing shattered at its heart; was rent at last 
from roof to cellar; came down ^ with 
thunderous crashing of beams and splinter¬ 
ing of glass and blinding dust of mortar 
and of brick. Did man 'ever live through 
such an hour or such a scene Cast 
downward, pitched headlong, conscious of 
no sure foothold, the very floor beiidiug^ in 
beneath me, the great beams of the ceiling 
bursting from their welts ; doors and 
windows, grate and chimney falling inwards, 
the awful sounds of rending wood and 
devastating iron and glass all beat to powder 
—1 say that I heard and saw these things as 
in some day of God’s judgment, of the last 
hour of my life and the beginning of the 
mysteries. And I must live, still live, 
there was no mercy of it. The beams 
fell about me, but none would kill me, 
the darkness was of the grave ; but, above 
it, I beheld a lantern caught by the 
brickwork and still burning.^ And I had 
seen Jeffery’s face, bloody in agony and 
the sweat of death ; and I knew that he 



640 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


liad paid the price and that his work was 
done. 

And so to tlie silence, with the crashing 
sounds afar, and about me the terror of the 
tomb. 


CHAPTER XXyill. 

THE PIT. 

The sound in my ears was like that of 
rushing water, or of the gathering wind 
surging to a tempest and always waxing 
louder. I was conscious of life, but had no 
power to return to life—not so much as to 
raise my head or lift a hand to help myself. 
As one in a trance (but the trance which is 
of the instant of waking), I lay for so long 
a time that days and nights appeared to pass, 
the sun to rise and set, the stars to turn 
about me, the voice of storm to fret and 
sob and falter. And from this I must have 
passed to sleep, the sleep of weakness and 
of Nature at her ebb. For the silence was 
profound when next I knew that I lived, 
and I opened my eyes in darkness so 
unbroken that even the very ground would 
take no shape. 

Looking back to that dismal hour, it is 
astonishing to me to remember how slowly 
my mind would gather up the tangled 
thread of that story, or allow me to remem¬ 
ber where I was or why I lay in darkness at 
all. Remoter events I conld recall—the 
days with little Agnes at Pan ; her coining 
to Cottesbrook and meeting my mother 
there ; the quari’el at Calais, the boyish 
anger of it and the heroics which followed 
after. But the greater matter, the shaft 
below the sea, the weeks of the doubt at the 
River Bottom House, the last grim scene 
with, Jeffery, were gone so completely, when 
first I eame to consciousness, that I had not 
a glimmering of them; and, lacking a starting 
place, could take no argument to begin or 
end it. Yague fancies, pitiful fears, haliucina- 
tions which had more of logic than the 
common, followed upon this oblivion. At 
one time I thought myself to be a dead man 
seeking the light from the shades. Or, 
again (and God forbid that I should dilate 
upon this !), I believed that they had buried 
me while I lived, and that tlie darkness 
about me was the darkness of vault or 
catacomb. There was a frenzy, a mental 
madness of this myth, which might Avell 
have cost me my reason. I swore that I 
would fight njy way to the light and air 
above me, if I dug the earth with my naked 
hands. The thought that I had been 


deserted by all the world, tliat men trod 
the grass above my head, tliat my voice 
would never lie heard though a hundred 
listened to it, drove me with woefnl strength 
to a mad battle against a rampart of brick 
and stone and the mould which fell chill 
and sodden npon my faee. But I was 
bound to the ground as though a chain 
engirdled my body. All my effort (so much 
greatei’, it seemed, than weakness would let 
it be) would not raise me, nor even free my 
limbs from the unyielding weight which 
prisoned them. The very struggle to be 
free but made the grip the surer. I could 
not move a limb ; scarce had the strength to 
cry out from the silence of that pit. 

Weakness followed upon this endeavour ; 
reason upon my impotence. When, at last, 
I came to lie cpiite still, because of the 
lesson which had been taught me, the events 
of the day and of the final hour recurred to 
my mind one by one ; and I could start 
from that last scene of the cataclysm, the 
falling house, the crashing beams, the 
splintering glass ; and from that (the mind 
ever working backward) go on to the silent 
hall, and the jangling bell, and the blows 
upon the door; and so, quickly, to 
Lepeletier’s death (if, indeed, he were 
dead), and to the sudden flight of those 
who worked in the thicket beyond the 
gardens. Ah, I had it all then, and wanted 
my story no longer. We had gone down 
together—the man who wrought and the 
man who would have destroyed—to this 
darkness, this pit which France liad digged 
for us. And of the two, life was for me ; 
for I had seen Jeffery’s face Avhen he fell, 
and I knew that he was dead. Again I said 
that the judgment of God was thus made 
manifest. Even theie, Avhen a man might 
not have wished to count the hours he had 
to live, I could remember that the great 
cons])iracy against my country had thus been 
avowed, and that, for the day at least, the 
peril was no more. The gate which her 
enemies would have opened at Hover was 
shut that night. I believed and hoped (as 
I believe and hope now) that tlie hour would 
never come when treachery or folly would 
open it again. 

Remote as a dream of a heaven of stars 
and wan light of suns beyond them, this 
abiding justification came to me, but would 
not rest; for ever recurring was the terror of 
the darkness, the surpassing dread of the 
pit which engulfed me. What was happen¬ 
ing in the world above? I asked myself ; and 
answered that my friends were there—Harry, 



FRO PATRIA, 


641 


pcrcliance, and, it might be, Malliiison—and 
that if they knew, tliere wonld be neither 
night nor day for them until the work was 
done. Or, again, hoAV should they know, or 
why imagine, that any man could be swept 
away in that cataclysm and live when it had 
passed ? They would seek the dead and not 
the living, I said. All that amazing dis¬ 
covery — the shaft in the thicket, the 
sensation which the trntli must bring, the 
desire to be sure that the gate was closed 
against France and her instruments, wonld 
prevail above all thought of those who had 
gone down in the cUbdde and were already 
past all help. Vain to hope or think of it, 
I imagined ; for if the thing were known, 
what labour of loving hands could mend my 
case or drag me from the place ? I would 
not believe, and, incredulous, went on 
believing still. 

It had been utterly dark when first I 
opened my eyes, and it was dark still when 
the sleep of weakness brought me to a 
calmer mood. Submitting now, perforce, to 
the inevitable (because of the very pain 
which effort cost me), I lay so long a time 
that imagination counted days and weeks for 
me, made unbroken nights of darkness and 
dawn which gave no light, said each minute 
was an hour, each hour an eternity. For so 
Time deals with us, as the philosophers have 
taught us, and being of our own creation 
can cheat us at his pleasure, and more 
especially go slow when we cry “Hasten.” 
As the fact stood, all those days and 
weeks of mine were but the vigil of a single 
night, the weary waiting for the dawn, 
which came at last in a poor ray of misted 
greyness that turned anon, as to a bird’s 
wing of dusted gold, hovering in the heavy 
air and tantalising the eyes with its promises. 
Then, too, at this moment of day, I heard 
the sound of water dripping, and saw the 
drops oozing from the bricks of a wall--the 
morning’s jewels of the dew. It was a weird 
sound, that ceaseless splashing of the drops ; 
and it began to be echoed in my head as a 
discord which could rack the nerves and 
repeat a note intolerable. I shut my ears 
to it vainly and granted that the ray was a 
message of good omen. For it showed me 
that I was in the cellar of the house, and 
that a great beam, striking athwart a heap 
of rubble of brick and mortar and stone 
pounded almost to dust, had so fended me 
from the avalanche of crumbling walls and 
crashing iron that, but for a second beam 
pinning me to a bed of mould, I might have 
stood up unhurt and laughed at my predica¬ 


ment. None the less, the mass that held me 
down gripped more surely than any vice. I 
was as a man nailed to the ground, unable 
to move a limb or even turn for ease of it; 
and so nailed must I be until my friends 
should hear me and answer as they would. 
How Parson Hariy would work, I thought, 
and old Malliiison, if he were there ! I 
imagined the few words that Malliiison 
would speak—the sharp, brusque order, the 
splendid purpose of the man. There would 
be nothing done without old Malliiison. 

The ray of light waxed stronger, the water 
dripped more abundantly, the clay waxed to 
its zenith, and still I heard no message from 
the world without. My own voice, raised 
loud in a cry for help, sounded to me as 
odd as anything I had heard ; such a lame 
cry, so afraid of it I was—afraid as the rats, 
whom silence emboldened and the halloa 
sent pattering again. And what were those 
above doing that they did not answer me ? 
I railed upon their indifference, their cruelty, 
their desertion of a comrade. If one of 
them had been in my place I would have 
worked for him until the flesh fell from my 
fingers. But no one lifted a hand to save 
me ; or, if they did, why did I hear no blow 
upon the earth, no tramping of feet or spade- 
thrusts sent well home ? Once there was an 
hour when I abandoned hope utterly, deter¬ 
mined that Harry and Mallinson were not 
there at all, that the house had been surprised 
by the police, perhaps upon some other errand 
altogether, by men who knew nothing of 
its secret and cared less. But this was 
untenable, and I could reject it even in the 
pit, and begin again with the picture of 
Harry in the debris, and Mallinson by his 
side, and good picks falling, and the earth 
thrown back, and hope of it—ah ! as few 
had hoped. 

I should perish, I should be saved ; I 
should die of starvation, should live of 
friendship. The reckonings that I made 
would have filled a book. In mines men 
had lived a week with never crust nor sip. 
Ah, said the Pessimist, but their limbs were 
not paralysed. It would take a day to dig 
me out, the Better Spirit argued ; but the 
Complaining Voice cried, A week will not do 
it. They are working now, whispered the 
one fellow ; the other mocked. Silence— 
silenee. Certainly I could not hear them. 
Not a stone moved in the rubble, not an 
ounce of the earth. The rats, more bold, 
came creeping to my side and crossed my 
body in their path. I had a thirst beyond 
bearing, a dull sense of pain which never 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


m 


left me ; but still the good fellow spoke. 
They are working now, he suggested ; hark 
to them ! I scarce dared to breathe while I 
listened for new sounds. It was—it was 
not; I heard nothing—heard something ; 
was afraid to move a limb or even to shut 
my lips ; put it away from me, took it back. 
Merciful Heavens, what torture! And 
yet, and yet—there was a sound ; you could 
hear it as an echo of something that fell and 
fell again, so remote, so faint, that my own 
heart’s beating was louder still and could 
silence it. And yet there was a sound. 

I clenched my hands on the earth and lay 
back, eyes closed, ears intent, to listen and 
be sure. The sound was to be heard no 
more—would it ever come again ? The day 
ebbed so swiftly that it would soon be night 
again ; and I must live through that—the 
night of a tomb, of blinding darkness, of 
the water gurgling and the rats at my feet. 
I til ought then that death was the lot, and 
wished for death, it may be, as the shorter 
way, the end of all the questions and all the 
answers, the one road to my deliverance. 
And then I heard the iron’s voice again—a 
dull, heavy clanging, a sure blow, many of 
them, swift and often together. My own 
cry in answer was lame no longer. Thrice 
I raised it as they had taught me in the open 
field, and thrice it was answered in clear 
blows upon the deadening earth. They 
heard me at last—at last! 

The moment of reaction, they say, is the 
dangerous moment of a crisis. I had been 
through so much, imagined so much, suffered 
so much in that pit, that it may be I leaped 
from extreme to extreme, and, hearing the 
blows upon the earth, said that there was 
salvation, this the end of it. An hour, a 
day—what did it matter if old Mallinson 
were up there and Harry at his side ? Ho 
lack of willing hands now, I made sure. 
Still as a mouse I lay to count the heavy 
blows ; no music was ever half as sweet ! 
To-morrow I should be up again, out in the 
air and the sunshine. I should hear the 
story of it, should witness, perhaps, some of 
the excitement of that day of wonder and 
deliverance. What had England said ? I 
asked. Had the truth been realised, or but 
a half of the truth, as was the case in many 
a secret of the nation’s peril ? Were the 
clap-trap peacemongers, the faint hearts, 
the “ will-not-sees,” already coming forward 
to cry, “ There is no warning here. We 
must trust France ; this is not the Avork of 
her Government, but of a mad engineer ” ? 
I divined, even then, that few of my 


countrymen would admit the truth, or 
believe that out there, beloAV the waves of 
the Channel, the tunnel lay, and that 
to-morrow might unlock the gate of it. But, 
credulous or doubting, the Avork Avas done. 
We had barred the road to France—Ave had 
barred it Avith our bodies as we lay there in 
the pit they had digged; and no hand 
should ever undo Avhat Ave had done. I 
Avould live henceforth for that. 

Old Mallinson Avas up there, and Harry 
Avas Avith him, and many Avorked to save me. 
To my shattered nerve be the charge of the 
fears AAdiich returned again as I heard the 
falling picks and began to say they Avere 
raised too late. For what, urged the coAv^d’s 
argument, if the earth falls as they dig, and 
the great beam is loosed, and the pit closes 
in, and there is a cave of it no more ? They 
Avould SAveat and work in vain, those friends 
of mine, if that befell. No more Alfred 
Hilliard to shout up to them, and be 
ansAvered Avith eager—aye, Avith desperate 
bloAvs. An off-chance I made of it after- 
AA^ards ; but then, AAdien the darkness AA^as 
coming down again, and the Avater dripped, 
and the rats pattered across my very limbs— 
ah, it AA^as so real, so sure, that I AA^aited for 
it—the oscillating beam, the gliding earth, 
the mould upon my face, and that last fight 
for breath Avhich must be an agony. Would 
Mallinson take account of it, Avould he 
remember ? There was no better brain 
among all the engineers, and I must trust 
old Mallinson and pin my faith to him. He 
Avould not forget. 

Hark fell—that intolerable darkness of 
the pit Avhich Avas a Aveight upon the eyes, 
and, tlie shapes about me being hidden from 
my sight, the dreamer’s trouble came back 
again. I remembered little Agnes first of 
all, and AA'Ondered if she Avere still at 
Folkestone, and if they had told her. She 
Avould come to the house in that case, and 
be Avith those who stood in the gardens 
aboA^e me. I could have Avished that they 
had kept it from her ; and yet there Avas an 
afterthought that she might be there Avhen. 
they got me out—hers the first face I should 
see, hers the first hand I should touch. By 
and by the greater questions of our future 
Avere debated in desperate deliberation, as 
though to defy the present and ignore it 
finally. Had her father’s death changed 
that Avord of hers ? Was the gulf of birth 
and nation impassable still ? Destiny had 
carried us far apart, but the danger bridged 
the road as it fell; and noAv of the future I 
foresaAV that Avhich had been so great a hope 






THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


C)44 


to me—the mistress of Cottesbrook and of 
my house comin<^ home again, as she had 
come to my mother’s side a few short weeks 
ago. The willing hands whose labours were 
music to my ears worked and slaved for that, 
if they had but known it. Aye, they worked 
for a woman’s heart and a man’s first hope, 
to blot out the past, to write a future which 
should have no word of a nation’s quarrel 
upon its pages. I^et it be no wonder that I 
listened to them, and could believe that 
never were hands which worked so slowly. 
They Avould Ijo too late noAv—too late, too 
late. 

Earth rolled in the pit, water gushed out 
from some hidden pipe and Avashed my feet, 
Avas splashed in muddy drops upon my face. 
I heard the great beam oscillate and slide, 
and thought that now it Avas falling to crush 


the A^ery heart out of me. But it caught 
again upon some cranny of the stone, and, 
moving, did that Avhich I never had been 
able to do for myself, for it freed the 
prisoned limbs, and I dreAV them out of the 
earth and staggered up, AAdth arm and leg 
Idoodless, pulseless, cold as death, l)ut Avith 
a desire of the reaction AAdiich could have 
set me leaping. Ingrate if I had not said 
that tliey Avorked like giants now ! The 
l)lows fell louder, surer ; the earth, quaked 
beneath them ; the roof Avas shattered in 
morsels AAdiich bespattered my face and 
struck sharp upon my hands; the Avater 
gushed in one unbroken torrent. I had not 
thought of the Avater before that moment; 
but noAV it Avas all my thought. A\his there 



to imagine old Mallin- 
son’s anger if he came 
too late ; Harry’s dis¬ 
tress, the tale that must 
be told at Cottesbrook. 
It Avould be in one 
hour or in tAvo, at daAAii 
or sunset—yet it Avas 
odd that none ansAvered 
my impatient cry, if, 
indeed, they struck 
dowiiAvard through the 
q u akin g r u b b 1 e. 
Always the silence and 
the blows, ahvays, 
ahvays. Impatience 
charged them at the 
moment ay hen im¬ 
patience should be 
gratified. I saw the 
thing and Avould not 
see it; shut my eyes 
and opened them. Ah, 
it Avas true, then ! 
They Avould save me 
e\^en yet. 

A light struck doAvn 
through a crevice of 
the roof and glistened 
radiantly upon tlie 
black pool of the Avater. 
I uttered a loud cry, as 
a child in AAxlcome, and 
far, so far above it 
seemed, the ansAA^ering 
A^oice cried back. Oh, 
Avho Avould have dared 
to lielieve his ears or 
to play liis ])art in- 
difi'erently at such an 



“ Our luinds 'were locked together.” 








PRO PATRIA. 


GAD 


hour ? Was it a voice or some of the stone ? 
Again I listened, again, again. Old Mallinson 
was there ; I would doubt it no longer. My 
friends had heard me ; their hands would 
touch mine presently. I was sinking 
down, down in weakness, but they would 
drag me from the pit—old Mallinson was 
there. 

And the rest is mine, mine of joy as then 
it was of agony. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE NEW DAY DAWNING. 

They dragged me from the pit to the 
garden of the house, and many strange 
faces peered into mine, and many carried 
lanterns, and many cried, “ Thank God! ” I 
was conscious of a cloudless lieaven and 
a clear world of stars glittering in the 
darkened vault; of the figures of horsemen 
moving in the shadows, and the sweet wind 
of the night blowing freshly upon my face. 
But, above all, I knew that Harry himself 
held me in his good arms, and that old 
Mallinson was at his side, and that I should 
sink back to the darkness no more. For 
they had saved me, these friends of mine, and 
I could neither speak to them nor answer 
them, but lie only as one helpless in the 
ecstasy of deliverance and of gratitude. 

The air—ah, God ! to breatlie that again ! 
The voices of men—to hear them ! To see 
the sky above, tlie trees about me, to know 
that the night was over and that I had lived 
through it ! What page could tell truly of 
that ? I was saved. Harry lield me. Old 
Mallinson was there, as black as any sweep, 
and sweating until his very shirt was limp. 
There was a gentle wind upon my face, and 
gentle hands to lift me up, and a bed as soft 
as down to carry me from the place. Oh, 
they had thought of everything, those wise- 
heads. And all the bustle, all the sweating 
figures, all that forethought and care, they 
were for me alone, the tribute of brave men 
to one they loved. I lay back again and 
thanked God that friends had been there 
that night. I knew that there was nothing 
else to think of ; a fretting brain began to 
rest; there came upon me a delicious 
drowsiness as of a child’s sleep ; and yet I 
did not sleep, but listened to them as I lay. 

“ Gently, now, gently. Have you no 
eyes ? All hands under and lift when I say 
‘ Three ’ — the doctor afterwards. You, 
lumberhead, can’t you back the cart—are Ave 
going to walk to Dover ? Lanterns up, and 


the otliers go away. You can come to the 
Lord Warden to-morrow. Xow, gently, and 
all together.” 

It was old Mallinson hustling them. 
Black, begrimed, dirty as he Avas, his eyes 
shone like stars and seemed to take in 
tAA^'enty things at once. I could have laughed 
at the figure he cut. There Avas never such 
energy in one man before, and never will be 
again. The “ lumberheads ” ran at his 
AA^ords as at the lash of a Avhip. 

“ Tell old Mallinson to take it easy,” I 
said to Harry—the first Avord that came to 
me since I AA^as out; “ there’s nothing much 
the matter, only a feAV bruises. I’m glad 
it’s you, old man ; it couldn’t have been 
anyone else. Don’t let them make a 
fuss.” 

Our eyes met, I think, in a glance aaLIcIi 
said, from the heart of one to the heart of 
the other, “ Thank God ! ” They had laid 
me on a mattress then, and the hobbledehoys 
Avere about to lift it to a farmer’s cart Avliich 
Avaitcd at the garden gate. Harry Avould 
not ansAA^er me, but began to call for the 
doctor, AAdio came up on a bicycle almost 
Avith the Avords. I recall his face, his figure, 
as I saAA’' it that night—the figure of a tall 
man, Avith a brusque, imperious manner, but 
all the skill and the quickness of youth in 
his method. 

“ Come, now,” he said, as he knelt at my 
side and many held lanterns for him to see 
my face, “ and Avhere is the pain. Captain ? ” 

“ AnyAvhere—everyAvhere. I Avent under 
AATth the house, and a beam fell across my 
right leg and arm. They’re not broken, for 
I can use them. You needn’t trouble much, 
doctor.” 

He smiled at the volubility of it, and, 
passing his hand quickly over my body, he 
touched my right side presently, and I could 
not hold back a sharp cry. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, “ crushed there, I think. 
Take off his coat, one of you ; Ave must look 
at that.” 

They obeyed him quietly, stripping me 
until the night Avind fell cold on my body as 
a spray of AA'ater. Someone in the croAAM 
said, “ Poor felloAA"! ” The doctor’s face Avas 
pursed up and severe. He called for Avater 
and a towel. I remember that I laughed 
AAdien I heard him. 

“ Pour a sip of brandy doAAUi his throat, 
measter,” cried a fat man in the ci’oaaM, and 
repeated the exordium at intervals. The 
rustics gaped AAutli open mouths; old 
Mallinson was still Aviping the SAA-eat from 
his shining face; Harry anticipated the 



64G 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


doctor’s every wish with a hand as gentle 
as a woman’s. 

“ Is there much mischief ? ” I heard him 
ask, sotto voce. 

TJie doctor answered, “ I am not sure.” 

Mallinson came np to us to steady the 
lantern which a clumsy yokel swung as a 
censer. I can recollect cold water upon my 
side, and a tin cup which someone pressed to 
my lips-. Then I was lifted up, up ; the 
stars began to roll and swim in the heavens 
above me ; I knew that Harry was there, 
that we were leaving the River Bottom 
House ; and, rocked as in a cradle, I sank 
to sleep, which was unconsciousness. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

The sun struck warm in the room where 
I awoke—a sun of morning, giving to the 
white blinds a dazzling radiance, and finding 
many a path of beams wherein the dust was 
grain of gold, and odd glories of colour were 
changing and commingled. I did not know 
the room—had no recollection of ever enter¬ 
ing it; and, content to lie very still (so weak 
I was), the ornaments of it came to my 
knowledge one by one, as a picture from 
which a cloth is turned. There, to begin 
with, was a great brass pole with hangings 
of dimity gay in pink roses ; and there an 
armchair in rep ; and there a dressing-table 
in mahogany ; and yonder a wardrobe ; and 
by them a table with a vase of roses and a 
bowl of fruit. Ho one seemed to stir in the 
room. Distantly, from the sea, there came 
to me an echo of the wind’s complaint, the 
rolling wave upon the shingle, even the cry 
of a ship’s man and the shriek of a siren. 
But I was alone, I said ; no one watched me, 
and so my eyes went roving to the picture 
again ; and anon, they seemed to show me 
something that I would never have looked 
for in twenty years—the sweetest figure that 
God has made, the gentlest hand, the face 
of my little Agnes, so wan, so wistful, so 
brave, as it bent over me, and those white 
fingers touched my own, and hot tears fell 
fast upon the lips which burned for them. 
Ho word was needed, no word of wonder; 
only the deeper silence of content, the surer 
message of the heart, which might not speak 
in that hour of her surrender. 

I was there in the room, and Agnes was 
with me (be praised that little nurse’s cap 
and apron so dainty !) ; and the sun shone, 
and the freshness of the sea saturated the 
cool air, and far behind me lay the pit and 
the terror and all that I had suffered in 
those weary months. Who would not have 


been content so to fulfil his dreams and take 
of Destiny that which she gave reluctantly ? 
To watch that childish figure ; to follow, as 
it passed, with jealous eyes ; to see my nurse, 
now at the table with the medicine-bottles, 
now thermometer in hand, now deft with 
lint and bandage—ah ! what had I against 
Fortune, what right of charge against the 
call that had come to me ? Let convalescence 
be a montb, a year ; I could pay the price 
with a good heart now. It was music to 
hear her talk, a new revelation of girlhood 
to see her lift the cup or lay a hand upon 
my pillow. Would she never have done 
with it ? Must I eat like a stalled ox ? 
And how came she guardian of these hours ? 
I feared to ask, lest she should be guardian 
no more. 

“Little girl,” I said at last, “will yon never 
rest ? Let me see you by my side, let me 
touch your hand—that’s the only treatment 
for me.” 

She shook her head reprovingly and 
brought the ox in a tea-cup again. 

“ The doctor says, ‘ Hot a word.’ I must 
obey the doctor, dearest. If you don’t 
drink, I will go away.” 

“ Pints, quarts, magnums of the stuff; I 
will drink the sea, sw^eet. You are never 
going away again, Agnes.” 

A flush of colour gave roses to her cheeks; 
it went travelling up until it touched the 
little brown curls ; and they, winning gold 
of the sunshine, seemed as a halo of the 
purest silk set about her childish face. But 
my question she would not answer; and 
so, perforce, the soup was swallowed again. 
And while I drank it^she told me of the 
circumstance. 

“ The Abbe Fordham has gone to Lady 
Hilliard. He knew that you would wish it. 
Lady Hilliard will come with him to-morrow. 
The other, your friend — oh, I have no 
head for names, but the black one—he will 
return at one o’clock. Will it be very long 
to wait, dear ? ” 

I pressed her hand in mine and thanked 
various saints that the beef-tea was no more. 

“ It will be about a minute, Agnes. Let 
us talk of it all. Your father is at 
Folkestone ? ” 

“ Ho, he is here in this hotel. But he is 
better to-day, and he wished that I should 
come while the other nurse sleeps-” 

“ Oh, be hanged to any other nurse! 
Where did she come from ? ” 

“ Dr. Barnes sent her from Folkestone. 
You have been here three days, you know.” 

I lay back and thought about it. There 



PRO PATRIA. 


647 



was something missing in her news, a piece 
of the puzzle which a fagged brain conlcl not 
piece. Why had I spoken of her father ? 
I coidd not remember why, or, upon the 
spur of it, recollect anything of the last 
scene in the garden, when that fine old 
soldier lay dead before my very eyes. 
Ultimately, as in a flash, memory came 
back ; but I scarce dared to speak of it. 
Heavens ! what had I said ? 

‘‘ Tell me the truth, dear girl,” I said at 
last—“ is it well with Colonel T^epelctier, or 
not ? ” 

She sat by my bedside and told me all the 
story. Our hands were locked together and 
her red lips almost touched my ear. 

“ Jean BoisdefPre saved him,” she said 


simply ; “he has 
always been his 
faithful servant, and 
he carried him from 
the garden on that 
dreadful day. My 
father had fainted, 
but he fell upon his 
arm, and it closed 
the wound. Oh, 
you can believe how 
thankful I am tliat 
he has been the 
means! They told 
me that he wiisdead, 
and I came to Mr. 
Tordham and spoke. 
There was no longer 
anything to forbid 
me. I told your 
friends that you 
were in the house, 
and they went there 
that very night. My 
father is not angry. 
He says that I have 
done well. He would 
have found a way 
if it had not been 
this. You blame 
him, but you do 
not know him. He 
has lived many years 
since we were at Pan 
together,dear Alfred. 
Ijet us help him to 
forget ill the years 
Avhich remain.” 

I drew her down to me 
and kissed her lips. 

“It is all a dream, and we 
awake from it together,” I said. 
“ Think of that which it has cost us—the mad 
ambition of a man, founded on conceit and 
hatred, and fed by those who want a king but 
have no kingdom. If I blame anyone, it is 
the Ministers of France, not their servants. 
They had no courage to say ‘ No ’ to the 
fanatics who would have hounded them on to 
any madness if the old puppets could be cast 
down and the new ones set up. There is an 
honour of nationality and there is a dis¬ 
honour. The patriot is lie who makes his 
country’s honour as his own. Believe me, 
dearest, I shall find my figure of France 
always in the heart of tlie little girl who 
first tauglit me that love prevails even above 
nationality. The rest is of the past—lived, 
forgotten. If we have suflPered, we have 


648 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


won something of suffering, nevertheless— 
your father his honour; I my country’s 
safety, as I hope and believe; you—ah, what 
shall I say that you have won, little Agnes ? ” 

“ All that a woman holds most dear—the 
shelter of a brave man’s heart.” 

“ But of one who would not touch her 
birthright therein.” 

‘‘ I shall love France always.” 

“ And I—because it has given me Agnes.” 

She lay in my arms, this little child of 
France ; and, counting all that it had cost 
her of hope and heart and self-reproach and 
a woman’s agony, I said that the victory was 
won indeed, the night no more, the new day 
dawning in love and retribution. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“mine the task.” 

There is no interest of others in a man’s 
convalescence; certainly there could be no 
curiosity of my friends in those autumn days 
at Dover, Avhich found me winning up to 
strength and health, as a young man will, 
and grateful to the nights because the day 
would send Agnes to my room again. 
Excitement I had abundantly, for what a 
meeting was that between Hariy and myself! 
and how old Mallinson busied himself with 
the charge of it ! and wliat a day when my 
mother came to Dover, and she and I Avent 
over it once more ! Aye, excitement and 
interest, and upon these the letters and the 
newspapers and the wild exuberance of talk 
seeming to be echoed in that quiet, sea-girt 
room at Dover, Avhere all the voices were of 
the ships and sailors, and all the horizon was 
blue of the Channel and white of the clilfs 
of France beyond. They had crushed me 
in the pit, it is true, had broken my ribs and 
bruised me woefully, and frightened me so 
well, that to sleep was oftentimes a whirl of 
dreams and of the terror made new ; but 
I had ten years of Eton, and three of 
Cambridge, and good days of soldiering 
behind me, and old Dame Nature loved me 
just a little, and hour by hour she brought 
me some new gift of heart and body, and 
dealt with mo, as ever she will with, youth, 
to get me up again and send me Avhole into 
the Avorld of things. Then for the first 
time, perhaps, they had my story and I got 
theirs, and, liaAfing them, the last shadows 
of the inystery were lost in tlie light of 
understanding. 

Bountiful days, in truth, but sur]Aassed by 
that memorable afternoon when Harry and 


I drove out to the River Bottom House 
together, and once more I stood a free man 
upon that site Avhere I had lost my liberty. 
AVell I recollect hoAV that a great crowd 
swarmed about the hotel to point the finger 
at us, hoAV old Mallinson hustled them, how 
my mother stood at a window to see us go, 
and behind her little Agnes playing nurse’s 
part, as she Avill play it all my life. Then, 
too, for the first time I knew that I had Avon 
the heart of my countrymen, and that some, 
indeed, Avould say, “ ATell done! ” Nor Avould 
I seek a greater reward. 

“ Why do all these people come here, 
Harry ? ” I asked, as Ave drove off, and a 
ringing cheer came fioating over the Avaters 
of the harbour, and many held out their 
hands to me. “Is it a fete and gala, or a 
penny peep-shoAV ? What do they think 
they are going to see ? ” 

“A man Avhom the papers have been 
discussing for a month. Is he nothing, my 
son Alfred ? Would you remain at home 
under the circumstances ? Just think of it 
—your portrait has been in ten ‘ illustrateds ’ 
and about forty-two Aveeklies. They make 
you out a cross betAA'een a stable-boy and an 
actor. How can mere humanity resist a 
picture like that ? They AAmuld have photo¬ 
graphed your eye-teeth if I could have lent 
them. Observe the draAvbacks to the natural 
article.” 

He frivolled on, but my curiosity Avas 
pricked. 

“ It’s really in the papers, then ? ” 

“ AYhere else Avould you have it ? ” 

“ In the brains of the gentlemen of Pall 
Mall—the War Office, to Avit.” 

“ Oh, we’ll fix it there, by and by, im¬ 
patient one. Wolseleysent for me yesterday, 
and I told him all I kneAV. He is not a 
man to dismiss it Avith tAvo fingers. The 
engineers have been Avorking in the River 
Bottom House for ten days noAV. They 
have found the fragments of Jeffery’s 
machine and the beginning of a boring 
toAvards the sea. I don’t see AA'here Master 
‘ Improbable ’ comes in. You’ve made him 
look silly.” 

I thought upon it a moment and then I 
said, “ Is the story of the tunnel told to the 
public ? ” 

“ Why should it be ? Is it not yours 
to tell ? What right have the others ? 
Make sure, the War Office Avill say nothing. 
It doesn’t suit their book.” 

“ Tlien Avhat do the papers talk about ? ” 

“ They say that you took secrets from 
Calais, and were kidnapped here by men Avho 



PRO PATRIA. 


649 


had come over to snap up drawings of the 
Dover forts. The rest is all guesswork. 
Smith contradicts Jones, and Brown differs 
from both. The market-place is full of it. 
You owe it to the public to write the thing 
down from the first page to the last.” 

Some day I’ll do it, perhaps. There is 
much to come before that. I must see Lord 
Wolseley myself.” 

“ He wishes it, the first day possible.” 

“ Ah, but there is Agnes.” 

He laughed and gripped my hand. 

“ What did I tell you on the Calais road, 
nearly six months ago ? Lepeletier is a 
gentleman. He makes no excuses—I read 
him ^ like a book. When they sent him to 
Calais, he believed that it was to command 
at the new forts there. His Government 
gave a tacit sanction to a tunnel from their 
side, but he knew nothing of an attempt on 
this side, and has come to believe with you 
that a soldier should not have played the 
part they put upon him. At Calais, Jeffery 
said you were a spy and warned Lepeletier 
against you. Ergo —a quarrel and the rest 
of it. The little plot to trap you in the 
tunnel and pack you off to Cayenne—the 
place where the pepper does not come from— 
was spoilt when you knocked Jeffery down. 
The remainder is a story of mad Frenchmen, 
the Jew-baiters, the anti-Dreyfusards, the 
wild soldiers, bankers, and well-born fools of 
Paris. They took the house and began to 
dig down toward the tunnel which comes 
over from Escalles. We trumped them all 
and by God’s mercy are here again. Take 
off your hat to that, old chap—there will 
never be another story like it.” 

“ Let us live to make England say that, 
Harry.” 

“ x4men, amen. You shall begin the first 
day you can hold a pen.” 

AVe sat in silence afterwards, and in silence 
drew up at the gates of the liouse where I 
had suffered so much, and, as I knew now, 
had won so much. Impossible to believe 
that all had happened in that very place ; 
nevertheless, the scene was potent to control 
the shattered nerves and to play strange 
tricks with me. Once more I lived the acts 
of it, could make them vivid to my eyes. 
The avenue of trees, the garden gate, the 
deserted road, conjured up for me in a 
moment the picture of that forgotten day 
when I had ridden out on my cob, and 
Jeffery had come from the house, and, head¬ 
long, the good horse and I went down together 
in the shadow of the wood. It w^as but an 
impression, nevertheless very real to me. I 


think the ruined house frightened me even 
then. One wing of it, I saw, had fallen and 
was nothing now but heaped up dust and 
mortar. From that place they had dragged 
me, but I had no nerve to revisit it. And 
so I went with Harry, arm in arm, through 
the tangled garden, listened without surprise 
to his story. 

“ Look, now,” said he, “ what this barn of 
a house has cost us both. If I surpass 
Methuselah, I shall never forget the day 
when Mallinson and I arrived at Dover to 
find you. missing. excuses we made ! 

what tales we told each other ! And now ! 
My son, I have ridden good horses five 
hundred miles about these very roads, if I 
have ridden a yard. There was no detective 
skill in London to be had for money which 
we did not buy. And yet the fellows baffled 
us. AVho it was I can’t tell you, but some 
man here played the part of an irate old 
English gentleman so well that Mallinson 
and two London men after him were put off 
the scent every time. I took their word for 
it—who would have doubted it ?—that the 
place was what it seemed to be. There was 
always the hope that you had gone over to 
Paris to look for curiosities, and that kept 
me going. I myself went to Paris twice, 
and Avas three days in Calais. Mallinson, 
Avho loves a broken bridge like a child, 
sneered at three that he might trot round 
the lanes by Dover. And Ave daren’t tell 
Lady Hilliard a Avord. Oh, my Alfred, as 
essays in beneficent preA^arication, read my 
letters to your mother during those same 
Aveeks.” 

“ I Avill never part Avith them. Here is 
the thicket, it seems. I saAv it often enough 
.from my AvindoAV up there, but never as I see 
it now.” 

We had made the little Avood behind the 
house Avhen I spoke ; and noAA^two men, Avho 
unmistakably Avere soldiers, came up to us 
questioningly ; but they Avere all civility and 
interest Avhen they heard our names. There 
Avere others in the heart of the thicket, 
Avhere, Avithout warning, w^e stumbled upon 
the head of the great shaft which Jeffery had 
guarded so jealously. It was a shaft no 
more ; for the last mad act had shattered it, 
and earth and stone had shut the gate Avhich 
men Avould have opened. 

“ Whatever it Avas, sir.” said my guide, 

“ the Frenclnnen went under with it. The 
tools are coming up one by one, and the 
great boring machine is there all right. We’ll 
have it out and see what it’s all about Avheii 
a week’s by. I do believe, gentlemen, that 

2 Y 


THE ]YIND80R MAGAZINE, 


m 

tliey were going to strike a tunnel through 
to France. And when they found they 
couldn’t do it, that the game was up, they 
let a charge of dynamite go, and down 
they went together, We’ll make it warm 
for the next lot that plays the Pharaoh trick 
. on us that way.” 

I laughed at his similes and turned away ; 
the house interested me no more. Across 
the Channel, as we drove back, the yellow 
glare of the setting sun gave lakes of gold 
to the sleeping waters. I remembered 
Jeffery’s words—that down there below tlie 
sea, buried from the sight of meu,^ unknown, 
unplaced, lay the weapon with wliich France 
would yet seek to strike my country from 
her throne, to debase her before the nations. 
And mine the task to shut the gate for ever, to 
speak the word as my Destiny willed, to call 
my countrymen to the ramparts, to raise the 
lantern which God had put into my hands. 

And to that I said “Amen,” and went 
with a new heart to one who waited for me 
by the lonely shore. 


AN EDPrOPvB NOTE. 

Such is Alfred Hilliard’s story. Forgettiiyg 
many tilings that redound to his own credit, 
he has omitted to speak at any length of the 
general recognition of the. brave part he 
played in this tremendous tragedy ; nor has 
he troubled to discuss the unnumbered 
arguments of the experts which this revela¬ 
tion has called forth. That France attempted 
to build a tunnel under the Channel to 
England is no longer denied. That her 
engineers had been engaged upon the work 
for many years is equally well known. Her 
prospects of success, should such an attempt 
be repeated, are variously esteemed. We 
have seen that the more daring capitalists 


and fanatics of Paris, having compelled the 
French Government to thrust out a tunnel 
from Calais, sought to open tliat tunnel here 
by taking a farmhouse in an Englishman’s 
name. Furthermore, they gave out to the 
world that the workings in the grounds of 
the house were nothing more than an attempt 
to form an ornamental lake. The vigilance 
of one man defeated this great scheme, and 
shut the gate, as he says, in the face of 
France. But the tube of steel still lies 
below the sea. No living man, outside the 
purlieus of the secret, can say liow far that 
tunnel is carried, or where the last tube of it 
is riveted. It may come even to Dover’s 
cliffs, it may lie miles from them. Excava¬ 
tion at the*^ River Bottom House has shown 
that the dead man Jeffery carried his shaft 
upon our side no more than a hundred 
yards towards tlie sea ; but distance is no 
light upon the matter. He had but to cut a 
gate to that road which France carried over 
from Escalles. He may have been a boaster, 
or he may have been upon tlie very threshold 
of success when the last great scene was 
played. And there is no Englishman reading 
Alfred Hilliard’s narrative who will not ask 
liimself if this be the beginning and the end 
of that surpassing conspiracy. To whom we 
say. The sentinels of England must answer. 

In conclusion—an item. The Captain’s 
many friends will liear with interest that 
Parson Harry Fordham was busy at Cottes- 
brook in the winter of the year, and having 
married Alfred Hilliard, bachelor, and Agiies 
Lepeletier, spinster, put them in a train for 
London, whence by easy stages they appear 
to have come to Abbazia, in Italy, and there 
to have been met by Oscar Lepeletier him¬ 
self. Paris already has called that venerable 
soldier a traitor. He has lost a country, he 
says, but has found a son. 










indii^n Wotber Sowi 


iyy WilUs jfrwtt) 


Sleep, llttlc Lovc Flower, sleep; the Day Chief ^oes to rest_ 

The wateb-^ire bl^es briybtly by his wigwam in the west. 

Sleep, little Lovc Flower, sleep. 

The Ni^bt Chie/ cometb out the east, with spirit warriors in bis train; 
Their plumes arc black above the bills,their shadows /all across the plain 
Their purple arrows vein the air, the sha/ts around us thickly fly. 

They come, and lo, the council /ires are lighted in the sky. 

Sleep, little Love Flower, sleep. 

Sweet be thy sleep, and sound, on slumber’s happy hunting ground. 




Copyright, 1900, by the S. S. lIcClure Co., in the United States of America, 
































































































Sleep, little Love Flower, sleep; the Day Cbie/ lies at rest — 

The watch-^ire burnetb dimly by bis wigwam in the west. 

Sleep. litHc Love Flower.sleep. 

The marsh-bird pipes unto her mate,the answering note comes from afar; 
Weird voices ’mono the sachem pines are murmuring tales of tribal war; 
The niobt-wind calleth from the north, the wood-folk wake with bonjfry cry. 
The fire-flies ban^ upon the trees to li^bt the Ni^ht Chief passing by. 

Sleep,little Love Flower,sleep. 

Sweet be tby sleep, and sound,on slumber's happy bunting ground. 













































THE VALUE OE A VOTE. 



By H. MOEGAN-BROWNE. 


HE EE is 
n 0 1 li i ng 
much the 
matter 
with the 
British 
C 011 s t i- 
tution in 
theory, hut 
there is a 
good deal 
to deplore 
in prac¬ 
tice. For 
instance, 
look at the 
House of 
Commons 
and con¬ 
sider how 
we get 
it. There 
are 0 70 
membe r s 
elected to 

do the people’s Avill. They are elected by 
votes, of which every one is supposed to be 
as good as anotlier—that is to say, a man in 
Newcastle, if on the register, lias a vote 
which should be of as much account towards 
electing his member as the vote of a man 
in Kilkenny Co., Ireland. Of course, there 
must always be cases where votes are of more 
importance than in others. For instance, a 
Conservative vote is worth very little in West 
Monmouthshire, where the Liberal majority 
at the election of 1895 was over 5,200 ; while 
a Liberal vote is not of much use in AYest 
Birmingham, where the same election showed 
a Unionist majority of over 4,000. On the 
other hand, in some places single votes are 
worth all the expense of an election. Thus 
in 1892 the Liberal majority in Central 
Finsbury was only 5, while in 1895 the 
Liberal majority in Durham City was only 
1, and the Conservative majority in North 
Salford only 0. In the following places 
individual votes must have given their 
possessors considerable importance at tlie 
time of the election :—In 1892, Linlithgow 
(Liberal majority, 7), St, George’s-in-the- 


653 


East (Conservative majority, 11), Stafford 
(Liberal majority, 12) ; in 1895, King’s 
Lynn (Conservative majority, 11), Lichfield 
(Conservative majority, 11) ; and quite 
recently in the by-elections in Durham City 
and York. But this kind of fictitious value 
which the balance of political parties in 
certain places gives to single votes is insepar¬ 
able from the changes and chances of this 
mortal life. Another kind of inequality in 
the value of votes is that due to the different 
size of constituencies, and it is with this 
political unfairness, which can perfectly well 
be remedied, that I am here concerned. 

In the following instances I have avoided 
confining myself to the most extreme cases 
only, in order to show that the anomalies 
with wdiich I am dealing are not isolated 
exceptions, but, on the contrary, are of 
frequent occurrence. 

In a little Irish town called Galway there 
are 2,000 electors; in Cardiff there are 
20,000. It is clear that a vote in Galway is 
worth ten times as much as a vote in Cardiff. 
It is found by experience that under rather 
than over 75 per cent, of electors on the 
register go to the poll. 75 per cent, of 2,000 
is 1,500 ; so that in Galway 751 votes given 
to A. B. at an election w'ould almost certainly 
make him M.P. But in Cardiff 751 votes 
would be lost in the 7,501 required to make 
matters certain there. Consequently, in 
Galway a voter has ten times as much 
influence in the election of a member of 
Parliament as he would have in Cardiff. 
This is an illustration from two single 
constituencies; the matter becomes more 
flagrant when we find a whole section of the 
community politically more powerful than 
the rest. Yet this is the case with regard to 
Ireland. Eoughly speaking, 16 per cent, of 
the population are on the Parliamentary 
Eegister—are or may be voters. In the 
whole United Kingdom there are six and a 
half million voters who return the 670 
members of Parliament. On a fair division 
that would give one M.P. to every 10,000 
electors nearly. Now, Ireland has only 
720,000 voters, and so is fairly entitled to 
72 or 73 members of Parliament, instead 
of the 103 by which she is at present 














654 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


VOTING STRENGTH 

of United Kingdom 


REPRESENTATION 
of United Kingdom 


ENGLISH 

/////////)/ 

Scotch 

'//////////> 

-VOTERS 

^^////// 

and WELSH 

mmi 

VOTERS 

YUltKO 


ENGLISH 


and WELSH 




M.P 


6.500,000 Voters 

I. 

represented. Ireland gets these 30 extra 
M.P.’s at tlie expense of England, as 
Scotland and A\^ales are represented in almost 
exact proportion to voters. The diagram 
above (Fig. I.) shows at a glance that Ireland 
gets more than her share of political 
represc.ntation. 

Yon see the shaded square in the lower 
left hand corner of the right hand big square, 
which shows the proportion of Irish M.P.’s 
to English and 


Welsh and Scotch, is 
a good deal larger 
than the correspond¬ 
ing shaded square in 
the left hand big 
square showing the 
proportion of Irisli 
voters. They would 
be the same size 
exactly if Ireland 
were proportionately 
represented. 

We may put tlie 
matter in another 
way. The average 
Englisli and Welsh 
constituency has 
about 10,400 elec¬ 
tors, the average 
Scotch 9,200, and 
the average Irish 
only 7,000. Conse¬ 
quently we may 
say— 

70 Irish votGS=:92 Scotch 
votes=:l()4 Knglisli votes, 

which, though an 
actual fact under 
existing conditions, 
is not one which the 


average English voter will 
contemplate with pleasure. 
This is on the average ; in 
particular cases, as I have 
shown, the disproportion is 
far more glaring. Thus— 

The vote of 1 Gahva}' peasant 
equals in political power 
the votes of 10 Cardiff mechanics. 

Put to return to our 
averages. Pememberiiig that 
only about 75 per cent, of 
the electorate go to the poll, 
and that a bare majority is 
all that is necessary to elect 
a member of Parliament, 
we may say that, on the 
average, 4,000 votes are 
required to elect an English or AYelsh ]\I.P., 
while only 2,GG0 are required in the case of 
an Irish M.P. This is shown in Figures II. 
and III., where the letters “ M.P.” are built 
up of ballot-boxes of proportionate size, 
containing the necessary number of votes 
in each case. In reality the English M.P. is 
a more important man than bis Irish col¬ 
league, because he represents so many more 
people, but in the House of Commons his 


II. 


670 Members 


4,000 VOTES go to the making of an ENGLISH M.R 

wm 



'////M/////A 

ISi 


'mm 

'W/fW) 


wm 

ill 


iiii 

in 

iii 

iilll 

yMW/, 

* 

■mm 



2,600 VOTES to the making of an IRISH M.R 



Sli 

VOTES 

'/////////A 

im 

im. 

Wh 

s 

yqxES, 

///////////, 


ypxii, 

z/z/z/zzzzA 

VOTES 

'//////z/zA 

Wi 

0/ /^///ZZ, 

ymM 
































































THE VALUE OF A VOTE. 


G55 


ROMFORD (Essex) 



DURHAM 

En^. Boro. 

2,500 


WINCHESTER 

En^.Boro. 

2,500 



25,000 VOTERS. 

IV. 


vote has just the same value as the Irish¬ 
man’s. 

But these inequalities of representation 
are bj no means confined to Ireland as com¬ 
pared with England. In all four sections of 
the United Kingdom there are instances of 
unfair difference in the value of votes in 
different places. Of course, there cannot be 
mathematical exactness in these matters, 
wliile the rapid growth of population in 
favoured localities will always disarrange 
the most careful schemes from time to time ; 
but one can easily see that there is room for 
a good deal of improvement in the present 
distribution of political power. 

The largest constituency in the United 
Kingdom is the Komford division of the 
County of Essex. It contains nearly 25,000 
electors, but returns only one member of 
Parliament. Half a dozen of the smaller 
constituencies scattered up and down the 
British Isles could be carved out of Komford, 
and enough voters would still be left to 
make a full average constituency. 

In Fig. ly. the big shaded square repre¬ 
sents the 25,000 voters of Komford ; out of 
these enough are taken to provide : Two 
English boroughs, two Irish boroughs, one 
Scotch borougli, one Scotch county, with 
all their voters ; yet the shaded part left 
represents more voters than Chatham (a 
town of 60,000 inhabitants) possesses. As 
a matter of fact, the voters of Komford 
cpuld provide electors for no less than ten 
of the smaller constituencies in the United 


Kingdom. The next two figures show how 
all this works out. 

In Fig. y. two large ballot-boxes are 
supposed to be put on to a pair of scales. 
In one are supposed to be the voting-papers 
of Komford (returning one member to Par¬ 
liament), in the other the voting papers of 
ten small constituencies (returning between 
them ten M.P.’s) consisting of five English 
boroughs, three Irish boroughs, one Scotch 
borough, one Scotch county; yet, as you 
see, all the votes of the ten would have to 
kick the beam when weighed against the 
votes of the one. That is the case at the 
polling-booths. In the House of Commons 
the case is very different, as Fig. yi. shows 
you. There, what we may call the shout of 
Komford saying “Yes” through its represent¬ 
ative is weighed against the small voice of 
Kilkenny saying “ No,” but the scales balance 
exactly. The “ Yes ” and “ No ” in the 
diagram are in rough proportion to the 
voting strength of Komford and Kilkenny. 

I showed in Fig. II. and Fig. III. how 
many more votes on an average went to 
the making of an English M.P. than were 
required for an Irish M.P. In actual prac¬ 
tice in certain cases the difference is even 
more startling, and by no means confined 
to contrasts between England and Ireland. 
At the General Election of 1895 the largest 
number of votes polled by any candidate 
was 13,085 at Oldham (a two-member con- 


At the POLLING BOOTHS. 























































656 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


stituency), and the smallest number polled 
by a successful candidate was 595 at Galway. 
In this case the member for Oldham received 
twenty-two times as many votes as the 
member for Galway. Or, again, compare the 
8,386 votes required to win the seat at 
Cardiff (a single-member constituency) with 
the 681 which sufficed at Kilkenny. In 
this case, every vote at Kilkenny was worth 
more than 12 votes at Cardiff. 

Another striking aspect of the same thing 
is this. To give places like Kilkenny (pop. 
13,700), or Durham (pop. 15,300), or Ponte¬ 
fract (pop. 16,400), or the Wick Burghs 
(pop. 18,100), or the County of Bute 
(pop. 18,200), or the Montgomery District 
Boroughs (pop. 17,800), the same amount 
of representation—^>., one M.P. each—as is 
given to places like Komford, Walthamstow, 
Cardiff, Handsworth (Staffs.), Wandsworth, 
or Wimbledon — each of which has more 
electors than any one of the other places has 
inhabitants —is like giving some parts of the 
country universal suffrage, including baby¬ 
hood suffrage, while other parts remain 
under a strictly limited franchise. This is 
no fanciful picture based on a rare exception. 
In the United Kingdom there are no less than 
27 constituencies in each of which the whole 
population, down to infants in arms, is less 
than the number of electors in the Komford 
division of Essex. Here are a few cases 


In the HOUSE of COMMONS. 



VI. 


where the electorate of one constituency 
exceeds the population of other constituencies. 
There are :— 

More VOTERS in Romford than people in 
Canterbury; 

More VOTERS in Walthamstow than people 
in Rutland; 

Tot'enham 


More VOTERS in 

Some Parliamentary Arithmetic. ti.an people in Tavntoa. 



Croydon is the eleventh 
largest single-member con¬ 
stituency in the United King¬ 
dom, yet there are eiyht 
constituencies (including 
Bury St. Edmunds, Durham, 
Grantham, Pontefract, and 
Salisbury) each of which has 
fewer inhabitants than Croy¬ 
don has voters; while Cardiff, 
with 20,500 electors, has 
more voters than the popula¬ 
tion of any one of twenty-one 
other constituencies (includ¬ 
ing Hereford, Winchester, 
King’s Lynn, Windsor, etc.). 

There is yet another \yay 
of looking at it. Supposing 
some of the busy centres of 
population were allowed to 
send representatives to Par¬ 
liament upon the same terms 
as these sleepy hollows of 
the Kingdom. What would 



























THE VALUE OF A VOTE. 


657 


be the result ? If votes everywhere were as 
valuable as votes in Newry (Ireland), Avith 
1,894 electors—the smallest constituency in 
the United Kingdom—Komford would return 
13 members to Parliament, Walthamstow 11, 
Cardiff 10, instead of one member each; 
Avhile Newcastle Avould return 17, the City of 
London 17, and Oldham 14, instead of two 
members each, as at present. Birmingham, 
Avhich at present returns 7 members, Avould 
become entitled to 45. In short, there are 
40 large constituencies in the United King¬ 
dom—all Avith more than 15,000 electors 
apiece—^AAdiich betAveen them return 40 
members to Parliament at present, but 
Avhich, represented as NeAvry is to-day, 
Avould between them be entitled to 350 


members, or a clear majority of the House 
of Commons. 

Lastly, on the basis of Newry’s represen¬ 
tation, instead of a House of Commons 
consisting of 670 members, AA^e should have 
one of no less than three thousand four 
hundred and ihirtij-six —3,436 M.P.’s ! 

Finally, in Fig. Yll. AA’e have ocular 
demonstration of some peculiar Parliamentary 
arithmetic under existing conditions. Bath, 
Avith little more than a third of the number 
of voters, returns tAA’o members to Parliament, 
against Cardiff’s one; and four thinly 
populated Irish counties, containing alto- 
getlier about the same number of voters 
as NeAvcastle, can outvote that toAAii’s 
representatives by four to one. 



LT.EWKLI.YX. 

Fi'om a photograph by E. B. Mowll, Birmingham. 




“TOben autumn TPHaueB to mtnter.” 

J3y Geoege Rankin, 


















I N looking for the ultimate cause of all I was travelling third class. I had expected 

the unpleasantness, I am inclined to a few fellow travellers as far, probably, as 

think that I have found it in the want St. Albans, but made up my mind that no 

of spirit with which my cabman entered into one could be so insane as to loiter all the 

the game of “ last across ” as played by the way to Bedford by this train when he might 

youthful denizens of Judd Street. go by the one I had just missed. As a 

At all events, I lost my train—the six- matter of fact I was right. At St. Albans 

something to Bedford. the last man with the last fish-bag did get 

It seemed that the next train was one out. But there was one thing I'^liad for- 

which left St. Pancras about twenty minutes gotten. It had not occurred to me that 

later, and, after calling considerately at all there might be people who would Avant to 

the^ stations en route, and stepping aside go from St. Albans to Harpenden, or Harp- 

politely for anything that Avas in a hurry, enden to Luton ; but there Avere. At 

arrived at its destination some time in the St. Albans I Avas fiooded with labourers, 

dim and distant future. and Avheii they got out at Harpenden an 

Under the circumstances it AA^as very dis- old Avoman got in AAotli provisions for a 

concerting to remember that eight o’clock lengthy journey. I saw my plan ruined ; 

Avas the hour for dinner. They Avould Avait; but happily she found, as old ladies often do,' 

the dinner Avould be spoiled, and I should that Avhat she thought Avas an “ up ” train 

be unpopular. But AA’hy not dress in the Avas really a “doAvn” train, and I aahs 

train ? It Avas a thing I had never done fortunate enough to persuade her that the 

before, and I thought it Avould be easy. I best thing to do Avas to get out at the next 

should arriA'e clothed and in a proper state station. 

of mind, and everybody Vv'Ould think Iioav At last I found myself alone and undid 
clever ^ it Avas of me to haA^e thought of my dressing-bag. Now, if ever you AA^ant 

doing it. ^ ^ to dress in a train, choose an express, not 

I had a preliminary Ayash at St. Pancras, a slow one, the difference being, as you 

and ensconced myself with my dressing-bag probably knoAv, that an express stops in 

almost cheerfully in the six-Avhatever-it-Avas. betAA^een the stations and a sIoav train stops 

-at them. It becomes necessary, therefore, 

Copyright, 1900, by Harold White, in the United in segments, SO that you may be 

States of America. always fairly presentable when the train 























660 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


pulls up at a station and the possibility 
arises of anyone getting in. When you 
come to put it into practice you will find it 
difficult. 

In the first burst between the two stations 
I managed fairly well. I had everything 
arranged, and I felt that all that was required 
was to get into them. Nobody got in, and 
I commenced to doff my clothes. 

Then my misfortunes began. I had 
removed my coat and waistcoat, and had 
begun to take off my collar. So it was that 
I lost my collar-stud. I don’t know wliy 
losing your collar-stud should be looked upon 
in the light that it is. I remember that 
when I was late for prayers as a schoolboy, 
the statement that I had lost my collar- 
stud was absolutely powerless to save me 
from fifty lines. I remember that losing 
one’s collar-stud as an excuse for non- 
attendance at eight o’clock chapel at Oxford 
simply had the effect of getting one gated. 

I remember reading all sorts of things in 
comic papers about people losing their collar- 
studs. It invariably arouses incredulity or 
ridicule ; but the point of view is entirely 
wrong. If you think of it seriously, there 
is nothing so important as your collar-stud. 
There is nothing that can make amends for 
the loss of it. There is no limit to your 
helplessness without it. The heir of all the 
ages without a collar-stud is but as a 
benighted savage. 

To lose your collar-stud in your room is 
bad enough, but to lose it in a third class 
railway carriage is exasperating to a degree. 
With my whole soul I flung myself into the 
search ; and you can take my word for it 
that there are few places more likely to make 
you feel hot, dirty, and angry than under¬ 
neath the seat of a third class railway 
carriage. Hemember that I had washed. 
It was no good. Of course I couldn’t find 
the thing by the time we pulled up at the 
next station. I put on my overcoat and 
waited impatiently for the train to move on. 
Luckily, I was still left alone. When we 
started again it struck me that possibly it 
might have “dropped down,” and I dis¬ 
robed still further. It apparently had not 
“ dropped down,” and I was obliged to 
renew my investigations under the seat, 
which I did with the firm determination of 
not rising from my knees until I had found 
that stud. So heated did I become in the 
chase, and so centred upon that one purpose, 
that I was not aware that the train had 
stopped again until I heard the door open 
and shut. There was no time to protest 


against an intrusion. The train had started 
again. 

My first feeling was one of indignation, 
but it was promptly succeeded by a shudder 

of embarrassment. Suppose it were a- 

I glanced timidly round. “ Thank good¬ 
ness ! ” was my mental reservation, as my 
eyes encountered a pair of trousers. 

My anger returned. I looked at the 
intruder with defiance. A look of defiance, 

I discovered, can only be worn with due 
effect in company with a full suit of clothes. 

The stranger looked at me with a curious 
smile and said, “ Excuse me ; I came in by 
accident.” 

I put on my great-coat and glared at him. 
He was a middle-aged man, clad in dusty 
black. His figure was spare and his beard 
was sparse. His only luggage consisted of 
a small black bag, the handle of which he 
clutched tightly with a thin, nervous hand. 
Ordinary—in fact, mean—as he appeared, 
there was something abouthim which attracted 
and retained your attention immediately, 
and that was a look, questioning and 
insistent, in his eyes—the look, I remember 
thinking at the time, that the Ancient 
Mariner must have turned on the “ one of 
three.” 

“ Please go on with your occupation,” he 
said. 

“I’ve lost my collar-stud,” I replied 
uncomfortably. 

“ Ah ! another accident. How accidents 
do happen ! You lose your collar-stud— 
by accident. I came into quite the wrong 
compartment—by accident. An accident 
may happen to this train. Who knows ? ” 

I had removed my overcoat and turned 
to my dressing-bag to take out my dress 
clothes, but the chuckle with which lie 
ended made me look up. It sounded so 
ghoulish. 

His glittering eye was fixed on me. He 
had the look of a man who has another at 
a disadvantage and is glad of it. Still, his 
tone was courteous, even obsequious, as he 
proceeded. 

“ Yes; what is the phrase—‘ Accidents will 
happen ’ ? A frightened horse, a slip of the 
tyre, a falling tile, a thousand things that 
one can think of, and a thousand things that 
one can’t, may cause the end. How can we 
think of ourselves as safe anywhere—here in 
this train, for instance ? ” 

It was strange and revolting, this harping 
upon accident as a factor in life. The 
subject had been dragged in, in the first 
place, without reason, and now it was 



ERROR OF JUSTICE. 


fi(51 


pursued in a in aimer that was mentally 
distressing. I rebelled, too, against his 
manner of saying these things—his air of 
smooth satisfaction. 

“ My dear sir,” I said, ‘‘ what do you 
think is going to liappen to ns nere ? ” 

I spoke jauntily, but inwardly I was 
conscious of a creepy, uncomfortable feeling. 
The man’s look was so peculiar. He tied 
and untied his thin fingers and smiled. 

“A hundred things may happen. Trains 
leave the line ; they collide Avith eacli other ; 
a bank falls; a tunnel roof gives ; the 
couplings give way. Besides, we might be 
wrecked.” 

“ Wrecked ! ” I exclaimed. He seemed 
almost to enjoy the prospect. 

“ Wrecked purposely. Haven’t yon read 
of such things in the papers ? Sometimes 
children do it out of 
mischief. Sometimes 
it is a madman.” 

“ Madman ! ” How 
eerie the word sounded 
spoken in that smooth, 
persuasive Avay ! 

“They call them 
madmen,” he said, Avith 
his curious, nervous 
laugh. “ Yon remem¬ 
ber, perhaps,” he con¬ 
tinued, “the Avreck of 
a train last year at 

P-. It caused some 

sensation at the time ; 
the man had appar¬ 
ently acted so entirely 
Avithout motive. Then 
there Avas the case of 

Mr. S-, on the 

Underground, though 
that, I A’cntnre to think, 

Avas scarcely so un¬ 
common. Besides, hoAV 
many things occur that 
never find their Avay 
into the papers ! We 
little recognise the great 
necessity of being pre¬ 
pared. Are you pre¬ 
pared, I Avonder ? ” 

He finished Avith his 
hateful laugh. It was 
horrible. 

My eyes again met 
his insistent gaze, 
caught in his twitching 
hands and the Avhole 
eager attitude of the 


man, and my fingers froze upon my braces- 
buckle. Grradually it daAvned upon my numb 
senses that my fellow passenger Avas a homi¬ 
cidal lunatic. 

I could just hear—someAvhere in the 
distance—his voice, as he told tale after tale 
of curious accidents and sudden ends, A\diile 
I stood fascinated and motionless. 

All the time ideas of escape and resistance 
chased each other through my brain—ideas 
too A^ague and illusory to be caught and put 
into practice, even if my limbs had had the 
pOAver to answer to my mind. 

At length his voice flagged, as though 
he tired of the sport, and his hand sought 
the spring of that mysterious black bag. 
Whether he opened it or not I do nob 
knoAA^, for then a strange thing happened. 
All the Avhile he spoke, his eyes had been 



“ I put ou my great-coat and glared at him.” 














662 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


fixed on mine, but suddenly they 
dropped, and with a sharp cry he 
sprang towards me. 

How I did it I shall never know. 
In an instant the carriage door was 
opened and slammed again, and I, half- 
dressed and dishevelled, with hands 
tightly grasping the brass rail, was 
standing on the footboard, as the train 
shrieked on to Bedford. 

At the window, his eyes wide opened 
with fear and astonishment, stood my 
felloAV traveller. He had been baulked 
of his prey. I could see that he was 
talking wildly, but the whirling train 
drowned all he said. In his mad ges¬ 
ticulations he thrust forth his right 
hand towards the window, and the 
failing sunlight fell on something glit¬ 
tering in its grasp. 

A hundred surmises seized me. Was 
it a poniard handle ? Was it a brooch 
or a ring filled with some subtle poison, 
a scratch with which meant death ? 
The reflected light from the window 
glass baffled my sight, and as I wondered 
the speed was slackened and we steamed 
into Bedford Station. 

People, I could see, were pointing at 
me and laughing as they hurried np ; 
but I did not heed them as I sprang 
from the footboard and shouted out— 

“ Arrest that man ! ” 


At a quarter past eight that evening, 
in a certain house in Bedford, Mrs. 
Norton said quietly, “ I don’t think we 
need wait any longer,” and she and her 
guests trooped in to partake of what one 
of them afterwards described to me as a very 
excellent dinner. He also added that every¬ 
body promptly forgot that anyone was missing. 

^ At the same time, barely a mile away, how 
different was the lot of the missing guest! 
I was seated in a waiting-room in Bedford 
Station, dinnerless, and still in the same state 
of apparel as when I left the train, for in the 
hurry of the moment my bag and clothing 
had been left in the carriage. Outside, 
above the window blinds, I could see a 
jostling crowd of the excluded public. Some 
of them could see me, and they, entirely 
misunderstanding the true facts of the case, 
were liooting at_ me as being some sort of 
malefactor. Inside were various odd police¬ 
men and officials. 

Now, I will not give my opinion of those 
policemen and those officials. I have one, 
but what it is you must gather from 



“ At the window, 
liis eyes wide 
opened with fear 
and astonishment, 
stood iny fellow 
traveller.” 


shall 


the continuation of my story. I 
add notliing to the facts—but a more 

scandalous- However, as I said, I will 

continue. 

Indeed, the sole claim to public interest 
that my experiences can have lies in this 
latter part of their narration. The publicity 
I give to these proceedings may, perhaps, be 
a warning to others. Possibly it may give 
rise to further inquiries, or a question in the 
House of Commons. I would not look upon 
either as thoroughly satisfactory, but any¬ 
thing would be better than the present 
indifference. 

I cannot write of Avhat followed without 
some feelings of indignation. I was in a 
circle, as I said, of policemen and officials, 
and confronting me was my fellow passenger, 
who was to offer some explanation to the 
story I had just told. His manner still 

























AN ERROR OF JUSTICE, 


gg^ 


betrayed a great deal of agitation, but, 
excited as lie was, be no longer inspired 
me with the same feelings of fear I had 
experienced in the railway carriage. There 
I was alone and unprotected. Here Avas a 
troop of stalwart constables. So circum¬ 
stances alter cases. 

A policeman, with that readiness to take 
a note instead of doing anything nsefnl 
whicli is characteristic of his class, opened 
the proceedings by asking him his name, 
address, and occupation. 

The man replied in the nervous tone I 
had remarked in the train, and so low that I 
could not catch his answer to the first two 
questions, but I could hear him describe 
himself as an agent for some insurance 
society. He proceeded more volubly. 

“ Ofir special advantages are that we 
supply to all the statutory next-of-kin a 
black suit or dress, according to sex, the 
male garments being precisely similar to 
those I am now AA^earing. Moreover,” he 
continued, as he turned to the black bag 
and opened it, “ you Avill see from a perusal 
of our prospectus, and from any one of these 
pamphlets, that our vieAvs are extremely 
liberal Avith regard to accidents caused by 
temporary insobriety and similar causes.” 

As he said this he produced from his bag 
a number of leaflets and little books and 
handed them round. 

The policeman Avith the notebook pre¬ 
served the judicial air of perfect under¬ 
standing Avith Avhich it is usual for the 
force to cloak absolute bewilderment, and 
commenced to read one sagely. The first 
item AA'as a raihvay accident. It Avas one of 
the tales he had told me in the train. 

“ But ’oAV about this gent ? ” asked the 
policeman, as though it AA^ere a triumph of 
cross-examination. 

“ I got into the carriage by accident,” the 
man replied, “ and seeing the gentleman 
alone and undressed I thought it Avould be a 
good opportunity to canvass him. You see, 
in a train, a gentleman can’t be in a hurry— 
at least, he can’t go off in a hurry, and Avhen 
he hasn’t got all his clothes on-” 

The man stopped. The policeman put his 
pencil behind his ear and looked at him, and 
over the faces round there came a look of 
dawning intelligence. 

“ I began—it is my usual method—by 
telling him some stories of accidents, every 
one of Avhich is strictly veracious and Avell 
authenticated. You Avill find them all in 
one or other of the pamphlets I have 
distributed.” 


Everyone Avho had a pamphlet consulted 
it Avith the greatest interest. 

“ I Avished to shoAV him the desirability of 
insuring Avith us,” he continued, “ by point¬ 
ing out the frequency of accidents and the 
liberal nature of our terms.” 

They all said “ Ah ! ” in chorus, as though 
completely satisfied, and then turned and ^ 
looked at me, and on each face Avas some¬ 
thing like a grin. 

The idiots did not see in all this the 
cunning device of a lunatic to cover the 
failure of his design. For months, perhaps, 
he had been making his preparations, or 
possibly—I shuddered to think—that bag of 
pamphlets Avas the spoil from a previous 
victim turned to account Avith diabolical 
ingenuity. 

I turned Avith some heat to the group 
devouring the pamphlets. 

“After Avhat I have told you,” I said, 
“of the way he talked of murder and 
violence-” 

The man interrupted me. “ They Avere 
the tales Avhich seemed to interest you most. 
You appeared to be quite engrossed in them. 

I was never more astonished or frightened in 
my life than Avhen you opened the carriage 
door. I am,” he added Avith that cough of 
his, “ an extremely nei’A^ous man. It is very 
unfortunate for me in my calling.” 

I noticed that the croAA^d began to regard 
me Avith the same curious look that they had 
brought to bear upon my felloAV passenger, 
Avhen I began my story. The policemen 
left his side and began to gather round me. 
This made me as angry as could be and I 
brought out my trump card. 

“ But something glittered in his hand 
Avhen he Avent for me,” I shouted—“ some¬ 
thing murderous, I Avill SAvear.” 

The man actually smiled in my face as he 
sloAvly put his hand into his Avaistcoat pocket 
and drew forth my collar-stud. 

“ It Avas on the seat beside you,” he 
said. 

It Avas a mere coincidence, of course, but 
all the fools accepted it as the final con¬ 
firmation of the man’s story. They Avere 
noAV laughing openly at me, all except the 
policeman Avith the notebook, and he AA-as 
solemnly shutting it up Avith the look of a 
man Avho has been “ had.” 

I touched him on the shoulder and said— 

“ I insist that inquiries shall be made 
as to AAdiether anyone has escaped from a 
lunatic asylum.” 

He looked me up and doAAUi Avith a curious 
expression as he remarked— 




664 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


“ If I was you, I should tliiuk the least 
said about that the better.” 

Witliasmuch dignity as I could command, 
I fastened my shirt-collar with my recovered 
stud and strode towards the door. Dignity, 
as I have said, is hard to assume in a shirt 
and a pair of trousers. I turned to the 
group of officials and said, “ I shall now 
go to my friend Norton’s and-” 

“ Oh, you are a friend of Mr. Norton’s, 
are you ? ” said a policeman, who had got 
in front of the door, with some surprise. 
‘‘ ’Ere, Bill, see ’im into a cab and take ’im 
there. We’ve got ’is name.” 

Norton is a man of some influence in the 
town, or I really believe they would liave 
detained me. 

x\s 1 looked out of the window of my cab 
I caught sight of that dangerous lunatic- 
at-large making mock canvasses for that 
insurance society, and apparently doing a 
roaring trade. 

“ Let them beware ! ” I thought. 

If he had run amuck at that moment. 


I felt that I could have witnessed the scene 
with equanimity. 

An hour afterwards, in James Norton’s 
smoking-room, clad in one of his voluminous 
suits (James has unfortunately got stout, while 
I have preserved my figure), I was recounting 
my adventures. James had his back turned 
towards me, for he was cleaning out his pipe 
over the fender. It vus a lengthy and, I 
should think, laborious task, judging from 
the movements of his shoulders and the 
noises he made every now and then. 

It was not till I had nearly finished that 
he made any remark, then he said hurriedly, 
“ I say, old chap, you didn’t really mention 
my name, did you ? ” 

I did not understand his tone, and replied 
somewhat stiffiy that I had. 

“ They may call him an insurance agent,” 
I continued angrily; “ but I call him a 
Avould-be assassin.” 

“ A\Tiicli is the worse ? ” said James ; and 
that was all the satisfaction that I got out 
of him. 


































AMERICA AND THE WORLD’S WHEAT SUPPLY. 


By Eay Stannard Baker.* 



-NE has 
only to 
watch 
for a 
few 
Aveeks, 
as I 
have been 
watching, 
the amaz- 
i n g 1 y 
intricate 
operations 
of the 
niacli i n e 
which de¬ 
posits each 
morn ing 
its supply 
of bread 
Avhere that 
bread is to 

be eaten, never a loaf too much, but some¬ 
times many loaves toofeAv, to feel tlie miglity 
reality of the problem of food distribution. 
There are at present about 517,000,000 
bread-eaters in the world. An increase 
equal to two Londons is yearly swelling the 
enormous figures, the additions coming 
partly from births in the more advanced 




countries, and partly from the training of 
the consumers of rice, rye, and the like 
into a preference for wheat foods. The 
deductions of years have shown that each 
bread-eater—man, Avoman, and child—Avill 
consume a barrel of flour (four and one-half 
bushels of Avheat) eA^ery year. The French, 
the English, and the Americans eat more 
than the average; the Eussians and the 
Germans eat less. On.the basis of this 


average, the bread-eating world requires 
more than 2,300,000,000 bushels of Avheat 
every twelve months to supply its table Avith 
bread. If the Avheat-fields of the Avorld 
produce as much as this, then there is plenty 
and prosperity the world over; if the pro¬ 
duction is less, there is suffering and starva¬ 
tion. ^ Few people realise Iioav closely the 
crop is consumed each year. According 
to tlic statistician of the United States 


* Copyright, by the S. S. McClure Co., in the United 
States of America. 

666 


Department of Agriculture, the world’s 
total production of wheat in 1897 Avas 
2,220,745,000 bushels—not enough by mil¬ 
lions of bushels to supply the Avorld’s food 
demand and furnish seed for the crops of 
another year. Consequently, countries of 
the earth Avhere the crop was light Averc 
visited by want and high prices, in India the 
need even touching the point of famine. 
During the following year, 1898, the crop 
Avas enormous, reaching a total production 
reported as 2,879,924,000 bushels, but this 
is probably an overestimate; and, as a con¬ 
sequence, there Avas plenty of food in nearly 
every part of the world. 

Not long ago Sir William Crookes, the 
distinguished President of the British Associ¬ 
ation for the AdA^ancement of Science, 
considering the proportion betAveen Avheat 
production and Avheat consumption, A^entured 
to name the year 1931 as a date when the 
Avorld’s bread-eaters Avould cry for more Avheat 
than the Avorld’s farmers could produce. 
There is good reason to believe, as Mr. 
EdAvard Atkinson has pointed out, that Sir 
William has viistly underestimated the Avheat- 
groAving possibilities of the earth, at least of 
the United States. Yet the statistics from 
AAhich such prophecies are draAvn shoAv Iioav 
very closely the consumer treads upon the 
heels of the producer, and hoAv imperatiA^e 
is the necessity of distributing the crop— 
groAvn perhaps half a Avorld aAvay from the 
centres of consumption—as soon as it is 
shaken from the thi-eshes in a million flelds, 
in order that every Avhite man shall have his 
loaf, and have it before his last supply has 
run out. 

Great Britain eats her entire Avheat crop 
in about thirteen Aveeks, and then she must 
be supplied immediately Avith the products 
of Minnesota, Central Eussia, or India, or 
else she must suffer. If the United King¬ 
dom could be completely blockaded, say by 
the ships of allied Europe, her population 
would probably be totally extinguished by 
starvation within three months. The like is 
true of eA^ery country in Western Europe, 
although in some of them actual starvation 
could be much longer aveiled. This imme¬ 
diate requirement of the densely settled 
portions of tlie earth for a constant supply 
of bread OA^errides all laAVs and diplomatic 

2 z 


6GG 


THE WINDSOR MAO AZIN E. 



HARVESTING IN DAKOTA, ON A FARM OF 10,000 ACRES, 8,000 ACRES OF WHICH ARE UNDER CULTIVATION. 


and political considerations ; it disregards 
customs duties and the boundaries of 
nations ; and it is tlie foundation of tlie 
world’s money systems ; for wheat must 
ino\'e, that men may have bread. 

DniPiCTiox AND Force of the Wheat 
Tides. 

Generally speaking, the vast tides of wlieat 
set to the east and north—from the emi¬ 
grant farmers on the edge of civilisation 
to tlie cities of the old countries ; from 
America, Chili, and Argentine to Europe. 
Tliere are lesser tides to the west and south, 
as from California to China, fi*om Russia 
and India to England, from the United 
States to Brazil ; bnt they are insignificant 
com])ared with the vast main tide from west 
to east. A few years may make great 
changes in these tides. The rice-eating 
Chinaman has tasted the food of tlie white 
man, and he finds it good. He conld con¬ 
sume the present world’s crop and still go 
hnngry. Siberia, opened by the Rnssian 
railroad, may yet be one of the greatest 
wheat-producing countries. Anstralia has 
b:en farmed only aronnd its fringes. 

AVhen a European thinks of food, he 
thinks in terms of wheat. He is the greatest 
of liread-eaters ; where an Amei’ican eats 
meat and ])otatoes, he eats meat and bread. 
A^et in the liest of years Europe never pro¬ 
duces enough, even including the crops from 
the vast fields of Russia, to supply her own 
needs. She is therefore absolutely dependent 
on the United States, India, Anstralia, and 


Argentine. If an open conflict between the 
United States and Europe shonld ever come, 
the American might go far toward winning 
his victory by a mere stoppage of the tide of 
food : he conld almost starve his enemy into 
submission. Five countries of Europe pro¬ 
duce more wheat than they can use—Russia, 
Hungary, Servia, Bulgaria, and Roumania ; 
but their surplus would be sufficient to 
supply only the needs of Holland, Belgium, 
Scandinavia, and little Switzerland, leaving 
unsatisfied the vast po])ulations of Great 
Britain, Germany, Austria, Italy, and France. 
It is, therefore, no wonder that the question 
of food supply is constantly before the 
parliaments of Europe. It is no wonder 
that the British Government is pondering 
the feasibility of building national granaries 
and storing vast quantities of wheat against 
the emergencies of war or famine. 

Horth America is not yet the largest 
])rodncer of wheat, although the day may 
not be far distant when it will bdve first 
1 ‘ank. In 181)8, American farmers grew over 
758,000,000 bushels, or more than one- 
(piarter of the world’s production ; l)nt 
Europe produced 1,548,881,000 bushels, or 
more than one-half the world’s production. 
Asia (mostly India and Turkey) came next, 
with 421,000,000 bushels. These three 
continents are the great wheat producers. 
South America grows only 72,000,000 
bushels, less by some G,0oi),000 bushels 
than the production of the single State of 
Minnesota; Africa grows only 44,000,000 
bushels ; while Australia, which has been so 
much heralded as a source of wheat, comes 







AMERICA AND THE WORLHS WHEAT SUPPLY. 



last of all, with only about 35,000,000 
bushels, or about the production of the State 
of Wisconsin, whicli is far from being first 
in the list of American States. 

The Giieatest of all Wheat Tradees. 

The American, with his enormous sur¬ 
plus of wheat for exportation, has become, 
naturally, the greatest of all Avheat traders. 
He is practically the manager and dictator of 
the world’s wheat movement. lie is eminently 
practical, clear-lieaded, and far-sighted ; and 
wherever I saw him—in Chicago, Minnea¬ 
polis, New York, Duluth, Buffalo, Detroit, 
or Toledo—he Avas always astonishing, he 
came so near to tlie realisation of tlie cos¬ 
mopolitan. EA^'ery morning he knoAvs the 
conditions of the AA^eatlier in Chili and the 
progress of threshing in India. The United 
States Government hangs at his elbow a map 
shoAving tlie I’ising storm in Montana, Avhich 
may reduce by tAvo per cent, the crops of 
Northern Minnesota. His special ncAvspapers 
inform him as to prices in Mark Lane, 
London; in the Produce Exclumge, New 
York ; on the Board of Trade, Chicago ; in 
the Chamber of Commerce, Minneapolis. 
The railroad companies quote liiin daily rates 


(HD 

for shipments to Kio Janeiro, Hamburg, and 
Hong Kong. His State Government Aveighs 
his AAdieat as it arrives from the fields, and 
decides definitely as to its grade. He knoAA^s 
intimately hoAV many bushels of Avheat there 
are each morning at the great terminal ele¬ 
vator points the Avorld over, hoAV much is 
afloat in steamships, hoAV much is being 
rushed across the continents in cars. His 
liank stands ready to ad\^ance him money at 
the loAvest rates of interest to the full value 
of the slips of paper AAdiich record his ele¬ 
vator holdings. He knoAvs the personal 
traits and the needs of half the races of the 
earth. Pie knoAVS, for instance, just Avhen 
tlie Chinaman can be persuaded to buy his 
cheap flours instead of rice. He knoAA’s that 
Germany Avill use his bran for making 
molasses cakes. He knoAVS that the Finns 
Avill sometimes eat his Aidieat, though groAvn 
4,()0() miles aAvay, in preference to the flour 
of Eussia. He knoAA^s that the Ph’dichinan 
eats more liread than the Englishman, and 
the Englishman more than the American; and 
Avhile there is Avheat in the bins of Manitoba 
or Buffalo he Avill not allow the poorest 
bakeshop in London to go Avithout bread to 
sell. So ATxst are his dealings that thousands 
luwe become units to him ; Avhen he sells 


TTTKKSHTNO WIIKAT : A SCKXK NEAR RKATKICK, NKRRASKA. 

The laroe blow-pipe in the background carries off the chaff, it can be pointed in any direction that is desired. 












668 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


“10 wheat,” he means 10,000 bushels, not 
ten bushels. He knows just where in all 
the world wheat will be scarce, and he pre¬ 
pares overnight to turn all his elevators, 
railroads, canals, and steamship lines to 
satisfying the demand. He may not know 
a harvesting machine from a plough, this 
trader of wheat; but his eye is always on 
the thin, wavering ratio line between popu¬ 
lation and production ; he is always facing 
world-wide starvation, and always averting 
it by his splendidly organised business 
machinery. Indeed, there is no more im¬ 
pressive spectacle in the whole scheme of 
human life than the almost frantic energy 
and haste of the men of the wheat pits, of 
the railroad and steamship lines, and of the 
mills, each fighting tooth and nail for his 
own personal gain, and yet serving all un¬ 
consciously the mighty world purpose of 
feeding the city from the surplus of the 
distant field. 

A few estimates as to last year’s crop — 
the crop of 1899—will give some idea of the 
wheat business of the American— 

For feeding his 74,000,000 inhabi¬ 
tants for one year, at 4j| b ushels 

each, he needed . . . 345,000,000 bushels. 

For seeding his wheat farms of 

47,000,000 acres, at bushels 

to the acre, he needed . . 70,500,000 bushels. 

Total requirement for one year . 415,500,000 bushels. 

Thus he got from the crop of 1899 some¬ 
thing over 600,()0(),()()0 bushels of wheat, 
and that left him approximately 200,000,000 
bushels to send abroad to his hungry brethren 
of other nations. More than a third of this 
he ground, and exported in the form of 
flour \ the remainder he sent as wheat. 
And in addition to this great exportation 
and the incident handling and conveyance, 
there is the interior distribution of wheat 
and flour in the United States, the move¬ 
ment from the fields in the West to the 
populous centres of the East, which is an 
immense business in itself, exceeding in 
volume the entire domestic food movement 
of all the countries of Europe. 

In spite of the eagerness of the American 
trader and his great shipments, he never 
sells down below a certain huge surplus. 
On July 1st, 1899, for instance, what is called 
the “ visible supply ” of grain in elevators 
at such terminal points as Duluth, Minne¬ 
apolis, and Chicago, togetlier with the wheat 
in transport on ships and cars, amounted to 
about 74,000,000 bushels. The invisible 
supply in the farmers’ hands and in country 
elevators on the same date was roughly 


estimated at 70,000,000 bushels, making a 
total of 144,000,000 bushels on hand at the 
beginning of the year’s harvest. The sur¬ 
plus varies from time to time, being smallest 
in the summer just before the new crop 
comes in ; but it is always large. It is the 
mighty trade buffer which prevents the 
running of “ corners ” and preserves the 
equilibrium of price and movement. Let a 
Lei ter try to control all tlie wheat in the 
country, and the canny trader permits liiin 
to dip deep into the surplus, and he suddenly 
finds himself so loaded down with wdieat the 
very existence of which he hardly realised, 
that he loses millions in trying to save himself 
by selling out. 

The March of the Harvesters. 

Hardly less impressive than the eastward 
flow of the wheat is the northward march of 
the harvesters. This begins at the bottom 
of the world, in November, with the harvests 
of Peru and the southern tip of Africa. 
Then comes Burma in December ; in Jan¬ 
uary, Australia and Argentine ; in February 
and March, the East Indies and Upper 
Egypt*; in April, the wheat belts of Asia 
Minor, Persia, India, and Mexico. It is not 
until May that the harvesters touch the 
United States ; in that month they reach 
Florida and Texas, and, in foreign countries, 
Japan and Northern Africa. With J une, the 
wheat harvest in the United States begins in 
earnest,and fromtliattime until September 1st, 
when the last harvester has passed northward 
out of the Eed Eiver Valley, there is not an 
hour of daylight when the click of the reapers 
cannot be heard. July and August are 
the harvest months of northern civilisation. 
In the United States, the harvest-time suc¬ 
cession has developed its own typical har¬ 
vester. He appears with the ripening of 
crops in Oklahoma, ragged, unkempt, and 
penniless, but ready to do a man’s full work 
for double wages. As soon as the Oklahoma 
grain is safely in shock, he marches north¬ 
ward. Somewhere in Nebraska or Kansas 
he acquires a blanket, possibly a black tin 
tea-pail, and a little money. He is then 
known as a “ Avheat stiff,” or sometimes as 
a “ blanket stiff.” If he is industrious, he 
can make a year’s wages in two months. 
By the time he reaches the Dakotas, he is 
one of an army of more than 50,000 men, 
nuiny of whom have been drawn from St. 
Paul, Chicago, and even farther east, 
tempted by low railroad fares, large wages, 
and bountifnl board. In Sc3ptember, the 


AMERICA AND THE WORLD'S WHEAT SUPPLY. 


6G9 



A SQUAD OK WHEAT SAMPIAORS AT WORK. 

From 2)hotographs supplied hy the ''North-Western Miller.” 


harvester, now no longer penniless, disap¬ 
pears from the knowledge of men ; where 
he goes no one can say ; bnt with another 
June he will be found waiting in Oklahoma 
ready for the ripening of wheat. And he is 
the first, and not the least interesting, of the 
movers of wheat. 

The Shifting of the Centre of Pro¬ 
duction. 

Another one of the great movements 
pertaining to wheat is the change of location 
in the centre of wheat production. Only 
six States east of the Mississippi had a 
larger wheat acreage in 1897 than they had 
at the time of the eleventh census in 1890. 
On the other hand, every State west of Uie 
Mississippi, with the single exception of 
Missouri, showed a considerable increase ; 
and the production of wheat on the Pacific 


Coast had made a phenomenal 
advance, constituting in itself in 
18i)7 thirteen and three-tenths per 
cent, of the total production of 
the country. Thus the centre 
of American wheat production, 
like the centre of population, is 
advancing rapidly westward. 

The Avheat grown in the United 
States is of two general kinds. One 
is the old-fashioned, jJum-kcrnel, 
winter wheat, grown through all 
the Central and Southern States; 
and the other is the hard spring 
wheat—the “ Scotch Fife ” and the 
“ Blue Stem ” of Minnesota and 
the two Dakotas—for many pur¬ 
poses the best wheat grown in the 
woi’ld and the kind that has 
made the fame of Minneapolis 
flour. 

During last season, the product 
of the hard, or spring, wheat 
sections of the country amounted 
to upward of 240,000,000 bushels, 
about two-fifths of the entire pro¬ 
duction of the United States. Of 
this Minnesota and the two Dakotas 
alone produced nearly 200,000,000 
bushels. Minnesota is the greatest 
of all the wheat States. Last year 
her wheat-fields covered nearly 
5,000,000 acres, and she grew up¬ 
ward of 78,000,000 bushels—more 
than twice the entire production 
of the continent of Austi'alia, and 
more than that of Creat Britain 
and Ireland. 

The x4merican farmer, and particularly 
the North-western wheat farmer, who ploughs 
and reaps and threshes by macliincry, 
without so much as touching his product 
with his hands, is becoming pre-eminently 
a man of business. The Government has 
supplied colleges for educating him, and 
it sends him regular bulletins containing 
the results of long-continued experiments 
conducted by the Department of Agri¬ 
culture. He is a wide reader, sometimes 
a thinker, and always a politician. Every 
morning during the days of harvest he 
receives the reports of the Board of 
Ti’ade or the Chamber of Commerce where 
his wheat is likely to be sold. He also 
has on his desk daily prices and a 
general advisory letter from his commission 
men. He is even beginning to study the 
Government crop reports and to watch the 
crop probabilities of Eussia and Argentine 



(170 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



ARRIVAL AT A GRAIN KLKVATOR AT BUFFALO. 

as an indication of tlie trend of prices. A 
prominent commission man of Detroit told 
me that large nmnbers of farmers in 
Michigan, which has the oldest and best of 
agricultural colleges, had put in telephones, 
so that they could keep more closely in touch 
with the city markets and be ready at a 
moment’s notice to take advantage of any 
advance in price. In Dakota, some of the 
farmers have special telegraph lines run¬ 
ning into their houses. All this recently 
developed business acumen on the part of 
the farmer is increasing marvellously the 
rapidity and efficiency of the distribution. 
Only a few years ago the railroad elevator 
buyer was the only man who could quote 
prices, and the farmers, knowing that they 
were at his mercy, were suspicious and slow. 
Now the more advanced of them know the 
reigning prices in Liverpool from day to day 
almost as soon as the most sophisticated city 
trader. 


How THE Fahmer Disposes of his Wheat. 

The primary movement of wheat is the 
natural flow to the local flour-mill, where it 
is ground to feed the farmer’s family, and 
toward ihe granary, where it is stored up 
for seed. The portion of wheat thus 
actually retained and consumed in the 
country where it is grown is astonishingly 
large. According to the statistician of 
the Department of Agriculture, half of 
the crops of Ohio, loAva, Virginia, Cali¬ 
fornia, and Oklahoma are eaten where 
they are grown. Minnesota and Michigan 
farmers consume a third of their Avheat. 
Pennsylvania eats over 18,000,000 
bushels out of the 26,000,000 bushels 
produced. In some of the States— 
among them, all of New England, South 
Carolina, Mississippi, and Montana— 
not so much as a kernel gets away 
from the county where it is grown. In 
all the United States, about 276,000,000 
bushels of the crop of 675,000,000 
bushels for 1898 were consumed immedi¬ 
ately at home. 

When the farmer has amply provided 
for himself, he begins to think of 
selling his surplus—^which in 1898, for 
instance, for the whole United States, 
amounted to the enormous total of 
400,000,000 bushels. Of this, something 
less than half is consumed in the cities 
of the United States, and something more 
than half is exported to foreign countries, 
either as wheat or as flour. The wheat 
crop of the average year is, therefore, 
divided into three more or less equal parts, 
the first being cojisumed by the farmer and 
his immediate neighbours of the smaller 
towns and villages, the second going ^ to 
supply the concentrated masses of population 
in the great cities, and the third being 
exported as wheat or flour to feed the 
foreigner. These are most important factors 
in the general economy of the nations, for 
the longer the producer can preserve intact 
the present relation between the Avheat con¬ 
sumed at home and that exported, the greater 
will the country become, the larger the 
number of farmers’ sons who will be educated 
in the agricultural colleges, and the larger 
the number of farmers’ daughters who will 
play upon pianos. 

There are three general methods by which 
the wheat farmer disposes of his crop. In 
the prolific North-west, where large numbers 
of farmers are cultivating from 8,000 to 
10,000 acres of wheat a year, where the 




AMERICA AND THE ]\ORLHS WHEAT SUPELY. 


071 



The Local Ele¬ 
vator ^Ian. 


various farm buildings arc connected l)y 
telephone, where the ploughing is done by 
complicated machinery, where the farmer 
owns from two to ten tlireshing-machines, 
from twenty to fifty reapers, and linndreds 
of cattle and horses, the sale of a crop 
becomes a large business transaction. I 
met a Dakota farmer of the type who had 
two large elevators, one at each end of his 
3,000 acres of wheat. Here the grain was 
stored as fast as it came from the threshers, 
and fre’ght cars conld be rnn on the special 
side-tracks which had been ])rovided by the 
railroad company, and the wheat sliipped at 
a moment's notice. This farmer expected a 
crop of 50,000 bushels from his land. At 
sixty cents a bushel, the net price he ex¬ 
pected to receive, his income from his crop 
for the year would be about £G,000. Some 
of the great farmers even keep special agents 
in the Chamber of Commerce at Minneapolis 
or on the Board of Trade at Duluth. These 
agents watch their opportunity, and sell 
portions of the crop from time to time for 
future delivery, as the reigning price attracts 
them. Of course, this wholesale method of 
doing business is only possible among the 
biggest farmers. But there is a considerable 
class of somewhat less extensive wheat- 
growers who have 
of late years 
formed close busi¬ 
ness relations with 
commission men at 
such terminal 
points as Chicago, 

D ninth, Minnea¬ 
polis, St. Louis, 
and Toledo. They 
order cars them¬ 
selves, and ship 
their grain direct, 
thereby avoiding 
the middleman 
charge of the local 
dealer, and get a 
price remarkably 
close to the city 
quotations. Some 
of these farmers 
even go so far as 
to sell on board for 
future delivery. 


thronghout the winter-wheat States, still 
sell ill the old-fashioned way, to the local 
elevator man or buyer. They keep them¬ 
selves so thoroughly informed, however, as- 
to the reigning prices in the great marts, and 
the probabilities as to rise or fall, that the 
commissions of the local dealer have been 
scaled to the lowest notch. Indeed, in this 
day of many railroads, if the small wheat- 
grower is dissatisfied with local prices, he 
can combine with his neighbours—a not 
infrequent occurrence—and ship directly by 
car-load lots to some city commission man, 
who is only too willing to buy his grain at 
the highest possible price. So fierce is the 
competition among the wheat-buyers that at 
some centres, most notably Minneapolis, vast 
systems of elevators have sprung up, each 
controlled by a powerful central house at the 
terminal point. There are no fewer than 
thirty-six elevator companies in Minneapolis, 
controlling 1,8G2 country elevators with a 
combined capacity of nearly 50,000,000 
bushels of wheat. A single company controls 
115 country elevators having a capacity of 
4,750,000 bushels of wheat. And the head 
of this company is also the head of other 
companies there, having lines of elevators 
in Minnesota and the Dakotas with a com- 


But the great 
mass of smaller 
farmers, especially 


UNLOADING WHEAT FROM THE HOLD OF A LAKE STEAMER. 

Men shovel the wheat by hand into the path of a travellinfi steam-shovel, which carries it to a line of 
travelling buckets ; and these, in turn, take it up into the elevator. 







672 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


billed storage capacity of nearly 10,000,000 
bushels. He also has lines of elevators in 
Nebraska and Kansius. He is said to be the 
largest individual wheat-dealer in the world. 
These elevators are distributed along nearly 
every railroad line touching Minneapolis, 
and form a network of business enterprise 
covering five States. Every part of every 
system vibrates in instant sympathy with the 
controlling head at Minneapolis, and deals 
are made with a rapidity fairly dizzying to 
the outsider. The manager of a local house 
may buy a thousand bushels in a day. The 
central office at Minneapolis is immediately 
informed of the amount by telegraph, and 
witliin an hour every bushel is sold on the 
floor of the Chamber of Commerce. Indeed, 
so rapid and successful is this system of crop 
movement, that of the wheat of 1898 less 
than thirty per cent., according to statistics 
of the Department of Agriculture, was left 
on hand on March 1st, 1899. In other words, 
more than two-thirds of a year’s crop had 
actually been disposed of within a half year. 

Perhaps no one thing so simplifies and 
facilitates the movement of wheat as the 
present rigid system of inspection and grading. 
In former times a load of grain must needs 
be carefully examined by every prospective 
purchaser, were he miller or commission 
man ; and if this buyer sold again, a second 
examination became necessary, with its 
attendant disagreement as to quality. The 
business of wheat-buying, indeed, was full 
of time-consuming details, and in the end 
neither party to a trade was likely to be satis¬ 
fied. As a consequence, the State Govern¬ 
ment, or, in some primary markets, the 
local Chamber of Commerce, stepped in and 
assumed charge of the whole system of 
grading and inspection ; and now no portion 
of the great wheat business moves with more 
ease and efficiency, a degree of care and 
accuracy simply amazing to the outsider 
being constantly maintained. 

A Typical System of Geading. 

Minneapolis is the greatest primary wheat 
market in the world, and it is here that the 
system may be seen to its best advantage. 
During the crop year ended August 81st, 1898, 
Minneapolis received upward of 75,000,000 
bushels of wheat, besides vast stores of other 
grain. It will be seen that so slight a mis¬ 
take in inspection or grading as tlie equiva¬ 
lent of one cent a bushel on the wheat would 
mean the improper distribution of some 
£150,000 in a single year. The Minnesota 


system of inspection is under the supervision 
of the State Railroad and Wareliouse Com¬ 
mission, which meets in St. Paul every 
August for the purpose of establishing grades 
for the ensuing year. Notices are pubiishecl, 
and the grain men of the State are invited 
to attend and make suggestions for changes 
or improvements in the system. Last winter 
the number of grades was fixed at eighteen. 
The first (and it is the pride of Minnesota) 
was No. 1 Hard Spring Wheat; and the 
second. No. 1 Northern Spring Wheat. 
Here are the descriptions of these two 
grades—■ 

iVo. 1 Hard SpringWheat. —No. 1 Hard Spring Wheat 
must be sound, bright, and well cleaned, and must be 
composed mostly of Hard Scotch Fife, and weigh not 
less than fifty-eight pounds to the measured bushel. 

No. 1 Northern Spring Wheat. —No. 1 Northern 
Spring Wheat must be sound and well cleaned, and must 
be composed of the hard and soft varieties of sprinif 
wheat. 

The deputy inspector and his men are out 
early in the morning. The cars from the 
wheat-fields have been shunted to their 
special sidings in each of the yards. One 
man goes ahead, recording the numbers and 
initials of the cars, and examining the seals 
to see that no one has tampered with them. 
A second man breaks the seals and opens the 
doors, and then comes the deputy himself— 
the wheat expert. He is quick and keen, 
long schooled in observing the minute differ¬ 
ences which mark the wheat from different 
parts of the country. I saw one grizzly old 
inspector who had become so expert that, 
according to humorous report, he could tell 
what county in the West a car of wheat came 
from merely by sniffing a pinch of the grain. 
The inspector looks sharply for threshers’ 
dust, oats, cockle ; and he examines the 
kernels keenly to see if they are shrunken or 
burnt; and then he smells for smut. He 
even plunges a hollow brass tube into the 
heap to make sure that some cunning shipper 
has not put in a layer or “ plug ” of poorer 
grade wheat at the bottom of the car. 
Usually he is able to decide on the grade of 
a car-load almost as soon as he sees the 
wheat; but sometimes he is compelled to 
take out a pinch here and there, and then 
weigh it in a little brass kettle, to make sure 
that^ it comes strictly within the lawful 
specifications. He is an absolutely impartial 
judge. He records only the number and 
initials of the car. He never knows who is 
the shipper. I heard of one deputy who 
inspected his own brother’s wheat for six 
months without knowing whose it was. 

The official inspector is accompanied by a 


AMERWA AND THE WORLHS WHEAT SUPPLY, 


(]73 



number of active yonne men of tlie sampling- 
bureau Avliicli represents the great elevator 
and commission houses. They climb into the 
car, thrust a brass plunger deep into the 
wheat, bring up a sample liere and there, fill 
a bag, label it with the number and initials 
of the car, and pass on with the inspector. 
It is swift work, of necessity, for the samples 


must be in at the 
o ]) e n i n g o f t h e 
Chamber of Commerce, 
wliere, set out in little 
tin 23ans, eacli bearing 
the grade tag of the 
State inspector, they 
form the basis of the 
day’s trading. Of 
such wheat as now 
comes into the market 
an inspector can in¬ 
spect and grade thirty 
or forty cais an hour ; 
hut eight or ten years 
ngo he could inspect 
cUrI glade irum sixty 
to ninety cars in an 
honv, the wiieat at 
iJiat time being much 
cleaner, owing to its 
coming from newer 
and less weedy fields, 
aiid to moj-e cai-eful 
tlircshiug. Ill about 
half the cars the 
inspector must now 
sift and weigh samples 
of the grain to see 
how many pounds to 
the bushel it must be 
docked for dirt and 

oats. The highest 
gi’ade of Minnesota 
wheat is very rare 
and precious, and 
happy is the farmer 
who ships it. Of 995 
cars of new Avheat 
marketed in Minnea- 
polis during August, 
1899, only five cars 

Avere graded No. 1 
UNLOADING AT THE ^ai’d, Avliilc 290 Avoi’e 

WATSON ELEVATOIl, No. 1 

BUEEALO. Northern, 387 as 

No. 2 Northern, 15G 
as No. 3 Northern, 
62 were rejected, and 
89 Avere marked ‘‘ no grade.” The last tAvo 
classes are sold by the commission men for 
Avhat they Avill bring, and the wheat may 
later be dried, scoured or cleaned of dirt by 
the elevator men, so that it Avill come up to 
grade specifications. 

After an inspector has finished his Avork, 
the cars are resealed Avith a State seal, to 
await the disposition of the purchasex". Every¬ 
thing is done promptly and in a thoroughly 









G74 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


business-like manner, and the wheat is rarely 
delayed more tluin a day in the cars in which 
it arrives. The State keeps complete records 
and samples of every car inspected until the 
wheat has passed entirely out of the market, 
so that should any dispute arise, it could be 
instantly and amicably settled. It sometimes 
happens that the commission man believes 
that the wheat is entitled to a higher grade 
than the inspector has given it. If so, he 
may tippeal from the inspector’s decision to a 
State board which is especially appointed to 
hear his complaint. If the grade is changed 
after a second examination, the State bears 
the expense of the inspection ; if not, it is 
borne by the objecting commission man. It 
may be said to the credit of these inspectors, 
that during the crop year ended August 81st, 
1898, out of 220,777 cars inspected, only 
16,104 were held for reinspection, and in 
only half of these was the grade changed. 
The State charges a small fee for its ser¬ 
vices as inspector—twenty cents a car—and 
later it steps in and officially weighs all the 
wheat as it is distributed into the elevators. 
For a recent crop year, for instance, the 
total expense to the State was £88,886, and 
this sum was nearly covered by the fees. 

The AVheat Teadees and theie Methods. 

About ten o’clock in the morning, the 
wheat traders of the great primary markets, 
such as Chicago, Minneapolis, Duluth, St. 
Louis, and Toledo, gather on ’Change. The 
samples from hundreds of cars are ready on the 
tables, each with its tag oelling the name of 
the commission man, the grade and dockage, 
and the number of the car. Big dials and 
blackboards distributed about the room tell 
the story of the price fluctuations in the 
market at Chicago, and usually in the 
markets of several other cities, including, of 
course, the local market. The elevator men, 
the millers or their buyers, and the commis¬ 
sion men swarm about the tables, buying as 
many car-loads as they may have orders for. 
In Minneapolis, a very large proportion of 
the wheat is bought in for the millers ; in 
Chicago and other cities it is bought for 
storing against a rise in price or for imme¬ 
diate shipment. The seller makes a notation 
of each sale on his “ sold ” card, and the 
buyer enters his purchase on his “ bought ” 
card. 

So far, the trading is as simple as the 
selling of a calico dress by sample—I have 
grain to sell, and you buy it. But the most 
important feature of the wheat exchange is 


not this buying and selling of cash wheat. 
It is rather the trading in “futures,” a branch 
of the A\dieat business little understood by 
the outside public, and often unjustly judged 
on account of its al)uses. It has played of 
late years an immensely important part in 
making the movement of wheat swift and 
certain, and in permitting the middleman to 
do business on a very narrow, but still profit¬ 
able, margin. 

The selling of “futures ” grew out of actual 
necessity. Early in the sixties, before the 
railroads had reached out into the West, che 
ele^'ator men of Red AYiiig, Minnesota, then 
a great wheat market, were compelled to buy 
the farmer’s wheat in quantities in the fall, 
store it all winter, and fioat it down the 
Mississippi in The spring. They bought 
without the slightest idea of what the price 
would be when they came to sell, and the 
fluctuations of war times were wide and 
frequent. As a consequence, the Red AYing 
traders were compelled to buy very low from 
the farmers, to avoid any possibility of loss 
when they came to sell, and their profits 
were quite likely to be enormous. This con¬ 
dition of the grain trade, with the resultant 
dissatisfaction among the farmers, was the 
direct cause of the practice of selling for the 
future. The date of the first transaction is 
not known, but it was in the winter of 
1868-69 that the system was first generally 
used. The wheat was sold for delivery in 
May. It was a simple business transaction, 
a man selling wheat which he had actually 
in his possession, to be delivered to the buyer 
at a future time. From this primitive and 
perfectly Avholesome form, the practice, how¬ 
ever, finally developed into such refinements 
of pure speculation that now immense sales, 
for “ future ” delivery, are made by men 
who don’t possess, and don’t expect to 
possess, a grain of actual wheat, to men 
who have no desire or expectation of ever 
getting any. 

The Mamhoth Elevatoes. 

Having been sold on the trading board of 
the terminal market, the wheat is stored in 
elevators, each grade by itself, and elevator 
receipts are issued to the owners. These 
receipts play an important part in every 
wheat transaction. They are accepted by 
banks as security for loans to nearly the full 
value in money of the wheat they represent. 
Both the State and the local Chambers of 
Commerce watch the elevators with critical 
eyes, for it is upon the absolute trustworthi- 


AMERICA AND THE WORLD\S WHEAT SEPFLY, 


G75 



ness of these receipts that the trade bases its 
money transactions. 

The four gieat wheat elevator centres are 
Minneapolis, Duluth, Chicago, and Buffalo. 
I visited some of the elevators iu the last- 
named city—elevators that have a storage 
capacity of from 100,000 to 2,500,000 bushels, 
some of them built of steel, operated by elec¬ 
tricity from Niagara Falls, protected from 
lire by pneumatic water systems, and having 
complete machinery for cleaning, drying, and 
scouring the wheat, when that is necessary. 
The elevators are provided with so-called 
“ legs,” long spouts, containing moving 
bucket-belts, which are loAvered into the 
hold of a grain-laden vessel. Here the 
wheat is shovelled by grimy workmen, toiling 
in a cloud of dust, into the pathway of huge 
steam shovels, which, in turn, draw the 
yellow load—it looks from above like so much 
sand—to the ends of the “ legs,” where the 


tJliAIN “sCOOrKliS” GOING TO WOKK IN BUFFALO HARBOUR, 


buckets seize it, and carry it upward into the 
elevator, and distribute it among the various 
bins. A cargo of 18(),o<)() bushels can thus 
be unloaded in a few hours, while legs on 
the other side of the elevator will reload it 
into cars, six at a time, in ffve minutes, or in 
an hour fill a canal-boat. The cost of all 
these operations has been reduced to a 
ridiculously low figure—the entire work of 
unloading, storing, and reloading rarely 
adding more than one cent to the price of a 
bushel of wheat. 

Transportation to the Seaboard. 

The transportation of the wheat from the 
West to the seaboard is a business of almost 
inconceivable magnitude. It means many 
thousands of pounds a year to railroad and 
ship owners, aud during tlie rush season 
so great is the demand for transportation 
that shippers find dilficnlty in 
obtaining enough, cars and 
vessels. Most of the wheat of 
the North-west goes by way of 
the lakes, through the Sault de 
Sainte Marie Canal, to Buffalo, 
where it is shipped by rail or 
canal to New York, Boston, 
Baltimore, and Philadelphia. 
Few there are who appreciate 
the magnitude of the lake 
shipping interests, which have 
been developed to a considerable 
extent by the transportation of 
wheat. Duluth-Superior is the 
second port in the United States 
in point of tonnage, being 
exceeded only by New York. 
The Sault de Sainte Marie Canal 
passes two and a half times as 
mucli tonnage in eight months 
as the Suez Canal passes in a 
full year. Lake shipping fur¬ 
nishes, moreover, the cheapest 
transportation in the world. 
Some of the greater lake vessels 
carry enormous cargoes—up to 
250,000 bushels of wheat in 
a single load. Without com¬ 
parisons it is difficult to form 
any conception of the immensity 
of a cargo of this size. In 
Duluth, 700 bushels are esti¬ 
mated as a car-load. At that 
rate, a cargo of 252,000 bushels, 
which has actually been trans¬ 
ported from Duluth to Buffalo, 
would fill 300 cars, or nine trains 







676 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



lOOO' 




COMPARATIVE WHEAT PRODUCTION OF THE DIFFERENT COUNTRIES. 




of forty cars each. At fifteen bushels to tlie 
acre, this cargo would represent the yield of 
1G,800 acres of land. In many localities, a 
farm of 160 acres is looked upon as a large 
one. It would take 105 such farms to raise 
enough wheat to furnish this one cargo. 

No better tribute could be paid to the 
magnificent transportation machinery of the 
country than a simple statement of the freight 
rates on grain to foreign ports. A bushel of 
wheat, or an equivalent amount of flour, can 
be shipped from Minneapolis to almost any 
point in Western Europe for about twenty 
cents. This includes no fewer than three 
re-shipments—at Duluth, Buffalo, and New 
York. It is a curious and significant fact 
for the economists to explain, that it costs 
almost as much to transport a bushel of 
wheat from the Dakota fields to Duluth as 
it does to send the same wheat from Duluth 
through to Liverpool. A similar condition 
apparently exists in England. A recent 
writer in the London BmJcer's Magazine 
says that shippers in America can move grain 
from Duluth to Liverpool for less than the 
English railroads charge for carrying it from 
Liverpool to Leicester. The same writer, in 
comparing Old World methods of wheat- 
dealing with New, pays a splendid tribute to 
the genius of the American trader. He 


machine. Even the specu¬ 
lators in the “ wlieat 
pit,” who buy and sell 
“futures,” have their 
legitimate use. Their deal¬ 
ings create a free market 
for grain such as exists 
nowhere else. through 
them millions of bushels 
can be bought or sold any 
morning. Orders wdiic'h 
might take days to execute 
at Liverpool o"r Mark Lane 
are the work of a moment 
in Chicago. In the case 
of a foreign purchase, the 
grain can be on the way 
to the port of shipment 
the same night. So on 
all the w'ay through, in 
every branch of theNvheut 
business, from growing it 


The cost of growing wheat is only one factor in the 
problem which the Americans are solving so success¬ 
fully—of how the New World is to feed the Old. No 
less important are the railroads with which the Western 
States are now grid-ironed, the rolling stock, beside 
which our own is quite out of date, and the ubiquitous 
agencies that exist for collecting grain, grading it, and 
hurrying it through to the seaboard in train-loads of 
300 or ^00 tons each. The financing of the crop 
requires a most extensive ramification of local bankers 
and grain brokers, who have all to be “ bright men ” if 
they mean to fulfil their first duty as Americans and 
“get on top.” The elevator companies, who store 
grain at the railroad centres, whence it can be shipped 
east at an hour’s notice, are indispensable wheels in the 


xiuni growing It 

to making markets for it, the American is facile 
princeps. He handles millions of bushels where 
European dealers seldom get beyond thousands, and 
his methods are proportionately massive. 

The Foheign Consumers. 

Last year the United States exported about 
200,000,00() bushels of its wheat crop, about 
80,00(y)00 bushels, or 18,000,000 barrels, 
of which took the form of flour. The year 
before was the greatest in the history of 
the country for flour exports, every civilised 
nation ^ on the face of the earth and many 
uncivilised nations having bought flour at 
the American mill. The average price per 
bushel^ for wheat exported in the form of 
flour in the flscal year ended in 1899 ex¬ 
ceeded the price, for the same period, of the 
same proportion of raw grain by an amount 
which brings to American industry over 
£2,000,000 in one year as a compensa¬ 
tion for the enterprise which transformed 
the 80,000,000 busliels of grain into the 
18,000,000 barrels of flour exported. 

In this connection Western millers com¬ 
plain much of the present treaty agreements 
of the United States with certain foreign 
Powers, which permit the entrance of Ameri¬ 
can wheat at a much lower proportionate 
tariff than American flour, thereby en¬ 
couraging the shipment of the raw wheat 
and its manufacture abroad in competition 
with American mills. The millers urge that 
the United States should seek by reciprocity 
treaties to secure the introduction of flour 
and wheat into all foreign countries on a 
basis of equality. 

But in spite of all discrimination the 
foreign sale of American flour is increasing 
pormously—from about 4,000,000 barrels 
in 1875 to over 10,000,000 barrels in 
1885,^ and 18,000,000 barrels in 1899. 
American flour is shipped 5,000 miles to 











AMKRTOA AND THE WORLIfS WHEAT SUPPLY. 


677 


compete with Russian flonr in Germany ; and, 
more wonderful still, AVestern millers are 
actually selling their cheaper grades of flour 
in China to compete with the native-grown 
rice. The exportation of flour to Hong 
Kong exceeded 1,000,000 barrels in the 
year 1899, while in 1889 the number was 
only 378,684 barrels. The flonr shipped to 
Hong Koiig is distributed largely in China. 
Considerable (piantities also are shipped direct 
to Japan and the Pliilippines. In ten years 
the United States flour trade in Japan has 
increased elevenfold, while in all Asia it 
has risen from 418,853 barrels in 1889 to 
about 1,750,000 in 1899. Germany took 
500,000 barrels in 1899 compared with only 
18,000 barrels in 1889. Holland has become 
one of America’s very best customers, but 
does not compare with Great Britain, which 
has nearly doubled her imports since 1889, 
so that she now buys of the United States 
more than 10,000,000 barrels a year, or con¬ 
siderably more than half of their entire ex¬ 
portations. Great Britain has the character 
of being fond of American flour. She buys 
the best grades and knows the best brands. 
The flour is exported in 280 and 140 pound 
sacks. It goes in free of duty, and so the 
prices in England range remarkably close to 
the prices in America. During the fiscal 
year ended J nne of last year Great Britain 
paid to America nearly £20,000,000 out of 
America’s total receipts of £85,000,000 for 
flour and wheat exported to foreign countries. 
Germany came next, then Canada, and then 
South xlmerica—chiefly Brazil. 


The Profit of the Farmer. 

Now, from all this vast production and 
distribution, what is the result in profit and 
prosperity to the American farmer ? This 
is, of course, a most important question, for 
the volume of the wheat business rises and 
falls in direct proportion to the prosperity 
of the wheat-raiser, and a reduction of his 
profits means a sluggish movement of wheat; 
but I can barely touch upon it here. It is 
exceedingly diflicult to arrive at the exact 
cost of producing grain ; there are, indeed, 
as many estimates as there are investigators. 
But the AA^isconsin State Bureau of Labour 
and Industrial Statistics lately spoke on the 
subject with more than ordinary authority. 
Its calculations were based on more than 
7,000 inquiries and schedules, and its investi¬ 
gations covered a period of three years, and 
the conclusion reached was that “ the average 
profit or surplus as computed from the 
results of all returns ranged from five to 
twelve per cent, on the capital invested or 
used.” 

Moreover, the average yield of Avheat 
per acre is creeping up. In 1890 it was 
only IIT bushels to the acre, in 1895 it 
was 13*7 bushels, while in 1898 it had 
reached 15’8 bushels. By the use of 
machinery, combined with cheaper rates of 
transportation for supplies, the farmer can 
produce a larger yield more cheaply than 
ever before, so that, although the farm 
prices for wheat do not average higher from 
year to year, the farmer’s profits are larger. 








“IRcjectcD 2l&tirc66e6.’’ 

By JloNTAOi; BAitsTow. 

















ARMAND’S TREASURE. 

By MAYNE LINDSAY* 


Illustrated hy Warivich Gohle. 



\ Mr. Suther¬ 
land dreamed 
tlie sunshine 
stole under 
the rolled 
reed curtains 
that hung in 
the arches 
of the ve¬ 
randah. It 
spread, a 
golden hood, 
to the stone 
floor: it 
glorified the dreamer’s 
hoots, where they re¬ 
posed upon the long 
arm of liis chair ; and 
it crept, inch by inch, 
along Ills outstretched 
trouser legs. There 
were still mazes of 
shadowed background, of great cool rooms 
througli open doorways, of luxury and peace 
to be sought in the depths of the liungalow, 
and the sunlight swam steadily towards them. 
There came with it the scent of roses and 


of flowering shrubs, and the distant screeches 
of ])arrots. 

Sutherland was in dreamland, but he was 
not asleep ; he lifted his eyes occasionally at 
the creak of the tightening well-rope and 
the answering gush of water round the 
flower-beds. They stared thoughtfully at 
the broad lawn and the masses of colour 
behind it before they dropped again. When 
he looked he saw, in the place of his Avife’s 
garden, a trampled compound stacked Avith 
stores, and loot, and piled flintlocks, a loop- 
holed Avatch-toAA^er instead of the factory 
roof ; and his mind stripped the bungaloAV 
behind him of its vines and japonica, and 
saAV it stand forth, A'ast and naked, as a 
barrack alive Avith the clatter and clamour of 
fighting-men. The breath of the roses Avas 
lost in tlie stench of the gunpoAvder ; the 
indigo vats Avere a sunken arsenal; the 


* Copyright, 1900, by AA^arcl, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 


billiard-room, Avhich stood detached, scarcely 
to be seen Avithout tAAnst of neck, was the 
treasure-house of an eighteenth-century 
adventurer. The walls that girdled the 
hill on AAdiich the bungalow Avas set, and 
had their feet in the humming village at 
its gates and in the arra fields, stood out 
in a Avar-desolated country and eyed the 
smoke of pillaged districts. The sunbeams 
that lapped about him Avere those AAdiich had 
bathed the grim features of the Frenchman’s 
fort and had looked doAAii the smoking 
mouths of his cannon, in days that AAmtted 
not of the coming of Richard Sutherland, 
indigo-planter and man of peace. 

The reverie Avas interrupted by a voice 
from, the house and the approaching sound 
of footsteps. Mrs. Sutherland advanced 
upon the afternoon peace and shattered it. 
Her husband uncrossed his legs and sat up, 
rebuked by her energy. He faced her, 
guiltily aAvare that he had been an uncon¬ 
scionable time in dreamland, and that she 
had a pile of duties, mountain-high, amassed 
for him. 

‘‘ Dick ! Oh, Richard, surely you could 
bestir yourself on this afternoon ! Have 
you ordered the dog-cart to meet the Tran¬ 
soms at the naddl ? And, Dick, you do not 
intend to let your visitors see you in that 
suit of flannels ? ” 

Mr. Sutherland rose unAAdllingly from the 
chair. He looked the despised garments 
over AAuth wistful afPection, and he said— 

“ Very Avell, my dear, I Avill tell the sais. 
There’s lots of time to change. That’s the 
blessedness of living in the jungle, and being 
Avell off the line of rail.” 

“The people from Gunnaur Avill be here 
l)y tea-time. You must be ready to receive 
them, for Muriel has gone to meet Mr. 
TretheAAy, and I have still to get things 
finished.” 

“ I’m glad Christmas comes only once a 
year,” said Sutherland, moving off. Then 
he stopped Avith an ejaculation. 

“ Bearer AAutli an ‘ urgent ’ telegram. Your 
house-party’s going to crumble, mem-sahib I 

“ I hope not,” said Mrs. Sutherland 
anxiously, Avith a quick moA'Cment toAvards 
679 





680 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


the servant. She snatched the yellow en¬ 
velope, tore it, and gave an irritated 
exclamation at the contents. 

“ The Cunninghams—so like them ! I 
might have expected this to happen.” 

“ Cried off ? ” 

“No; they are coming, after all—and I 
had filled np their place. Two and two 
make four—seven—nine. . . . A¥e must 
turn somebody out of the house. AVhat is 
to he done ? ” 

“ Put Muriel into my bathroom. It is 
absolutely the only free corner in the house, 
as far as I can gather from your plans.” 

“ She would get fever in that draughty 
place. Though, really, our present predica¬ 
ment is partly due to her, for she would 
have me ask this Mr. Trethewy at the last 
moment. I hope there is nothing-” 

“ Met him in the hills, didn’t she ? ” put 
in Sutherland. “ That is much more serious 
than flirtations with my assistants. You 
know what a season at Naini can do.” 

“ I trust not. Jack says he hasn’t a 
inc9. I had to ask him, you know; she 
insisted.” 

“ The first duty of a parent is to obey,” 
her husband agreed. “We will consider the 
young man, and pray that he may be only 
the ordinary satellite. I don’t want our 
little girl to run away before she has been 
a year out from England. . . . AVhicli does 
not help you with the housing of your 
guests.” 

“ No ; but I have an idea. You know 
the godown adjoining the billiard-room ? 
It is full of lumber, of course, but it really is 
a fine, airy room, and your rubbish could be 
cleared away so as to make it clean and 
comfortable. I shall put Mr. Trethewy in 
there, and apologise to him for giving him 
an isolated bedroom.” 

Sutherland looked curiously at his wife. 
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and 
took half a dozen paces up and down the 
verandah. Then he paused and spoke. 

“ You don’t mean that ? ” 

“ AVliy not ? ” 

“ The window looks out over the top of 
the wall—the fort wall. Have you for¬ 
gotten the Sentry ? ” 

“ Richard, your brain is so saturated with 
gleanings from tlie past, and with native 
traditions and nonsense, that you sometimes 
lose touch altogether with the pi’csent Avorld. 
I, at least, am not afraid of the Scntiy dis¬ 
turbing anybody ; and it certainly shall not 
interfere Avith the best way out of my diffi¬ 
culty. Go and order the trap, and change 


your clothes. Don’t look like that. Do 
you think such preposterous fables are pos¬ 
sible ? ” 

Sutherland looked thoughtfully at the 
lawn. It was only a laAvn now, and the 
scent of the roses reigned supreme ; the 
“ old, unhappy, far-off things ” had been 
thrust back again into limbo. Still he 
shook his head. 

“ I think, in a place that possesses a past 
such as this one owns, many things are 
possible,” he said. 

II. 

The country-breds slouched along the sandy 
road with home-turned faces. Their riders 
looked upon each other, rode knee to knee, 
laughed and chattered. Their shadows slid 
before, blue and lengthening, and the flat, 
silent landscape of mango topes and culti¬ 
vators’ patches, and tussocky jungle, stretched 
about them to the horizon. 

“ I can see home at last,” said Muriel 
Sutherland. “ There, where my finger 
points. How far away it seems from our 
talk of Naini and its nonsense ! Nq are 
out of the world altogether here, and I think 
Ave are the better for it.” 

Trethewy followed her extended arm, not 
without a surging pleasure in the proximity 
of her eager face ; and he saAv a broAvn blur 
rise from the plain before him. It grew 
while he looked into the Aullage, AAotli the 
dome of the mosque for high light, and into 
the mud wall below Avhich it huddled, in a 
medley of Eastern housetops. 

“ I see no house,” he said. 

“ No, because we are shut in, Avith all our 
belongings, behind the Avail. Long ago, 
Ujhani Avas a fort, built by Armand Avhen 
he commanded a brigade of Scindliia’s troops, 
and it Avas occupied both by him and liis 
officers during the Avars against Jeypore and 
Holkar. Armand left the fort at last, in a 
great hurry, to join General Perron at 
Aligarh. They were defeated there by the 
English, and the Rajput garrison that Avas 
left at Ujhani surrendered the fort to a 
detachment of Lake’s army, but not till 
their ammunition AA-as exhausted, and every 
man Avas killed or wounded.” 

“ Good for them ! ” TrethcAA^y said. 
“ Hope my men Avill do as Avell Avhen their 
turn comes ... I Avonder if my ancestor 
came np here. My mother Avas the last of 
the Lebrassiens, and I am their sole suiwiving 
descendant. Don’t knoAV much about ’em, 
but I belicA^e the In’g man of the family Avas 
a soldier of fortune out here in George the 



. L 1ULAND\^ niEAHUlit:. 


(hSI 



I'liird’s tiiiio. He brought a fortune baek 
with liiin to France ; but it was not as large 
as it might have been, because he liad to run 
at the finish and leave a part in its hiding- 
place. He spent wliat he bi’ought away 
royally, bnfc perhaps, if he liad liad tlie rest, 
there would have been some to spare for an 
impecunious great-great-grandson 

He broke off with a sigh : his face clouded 


'• ‘ nearer witli an urgent 
telegram." 

over at liis thoughts. jMiss Siitli- 
erkind ])robably guessed Avhere 
tliey led, for slie flushed, and 
fidgeted unnecessarily at the pony’s 
mane. 

If you care to liear more about 
Ujliaiii, you must ask father,” she said 
presently. ‘Hie has its liistory at his 
finger ends, and he is always full of it. . . . 
Now, if we canter over this last strip of road, 
we shall get in, judging by the sun, at 
tea-time.” 

They urged the ponies into a hand gallop 
that brought them quickly to the village. 
]\[uriel rode ahead to shoAv the Avay, and 
Trethewy pressed behind, his heart astir at 
tlie ruffling curls about her neck, at the 
poise of lier light figure in the saddle, at the 
cadence of her voice. They liad hovered on 
the borderland lietween love and friendship 
through a hill season. Separation had told 
him upon Avhich side he stood. And he 

believed, he hoped, that she- Yet Avhat 

business had a needy subaltern to think 



682 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


of the girl’s love ? So long as he was poor 
and prospectless, his work should be to keep 
her from his own misfortune, and to he a 
man in doing it. 

The tubbj village children stared from 
the shelter of the doorways and alleys ; the 
mothers fled decorously from Trethewy’s 
gaze, and Muriel rode past sleeping pariahs 
and hysterical fowls, up the narrow bazaar. 
Her road turned, and tliere, frowning down 
upon them, loomed tlie studded, massive 
gates of the fort. She pointed out the 
bullet marks upon it as they passed through. 

Can’t you picture it all ? ” she said, as 
they rode up the slanting inner path to the 
bungalow. “ I can imagine the men batter¬ 
ing at the gateway, and the smoke-begrimed, 
wild-beast Rajputs trampling over each other 
as they fired and raged behind it. And we 
vegetate here now, year in, year out, in 
comfortable peace ! . . . There is father.” 

Mr. Sutherland was awaiting his guests on 
the verandah. He was bereft of his flannel 
rags and dressed in sober serge respectability : 
he looked—and Trethewy was aware of 
arriving at the fact before his eyes had gone 
further than the face—a quiet, easy-going 
British gentleman. In England he would 
have been a potterer about the haunts of 
roundabout English rabbits ; liere he had 
the chair in the verandah, with a tiger-skin 
dimly seen upon an inner wall to suggest 
possibilities. The gaze that he turned upon 
Trethewy saw a dark-eyed young man, with 
an appearance of latent passion and energy. 
He had a close-cropped Gallic head, and the 
smile that flashed as lie took his host’s hand 
lit the brown face with an oddly fascinating 
expression. Sutherland was not given to 
studying youths, but the little embarrassment 
in his daughter’s manner made him attentive, 
and he observed that this was a lovable boy. 

‘‘ I have to show you your room,” he said. 
“ My wife hopes you will excuse rough 
quarters, but, you know, a bachelor must 
needs go to the wall. Muriel, did you know 
the Cunninghams are coming ? It is so, my 
dear.” 

“ But where is Mr. Trethewy-? ” 

queried his daughter. 

Mr. Sutherland rubbed his chin and looked 
at her dubiously. He wondered if she 
would remember the Sentry. 

‘‘ The room off the billiard-room,” he 
said. Tlien, noting that there was only a 
natural surprise, lie breathed more easily and 
continued, “ Your mother is a marvel. 
Come and see what a good bedroom it makes, 
before tea is ready.” 


The three walked through the garden and 
in at the godown door. Before them, as 
they turned to enter it, was the brown crest 
of the old wall, at a level here with their 
feet; beyond, the panorama of the open 
country spread itself below them. Trethewy 
stopped a moment to note the steep descent 
with a soldier’s eye ; Muriel passed on, and 
gave a cry of astonishment at the trans¬ 
formation of the lumber-room. 

“ Oh! What a good room it makes ! 
I should feel inclined to take possession if it 
were not such a long way from the house. 
How well you can see the country ! And, 
by stepping up to tlie window-sill, you could 
get out for a stroll on the top of the wall. 
It is a regular eyrie.” 

“ There’s a fine broad space outside,” said 
Trethewy. “ I can fancy the men of the old 
garrison doing sentry there—tramp, tramp.” 

Sutherland wheeled round with a start and 
a stifled exclamation. He interrupted the 
conversation hurriedly. 

“ There is only one thing : you see the 
lumber has not been removed, and you must 
excuse its presence at that far corner.” 

Trethewy looked into the dim end of the 
room. He saw a couple of camel trunks, a 
despatch box, and a medley of broken whips 
and rusty spurs. 

“As a matter of fact, these are my pet 
rubbish heaps,” Sutherland continued. “ My 
wife can’t find room for them in the house, 
and so they live out here. The boxes are full 
of papers—old records and letters that I found 
where Armand and his subalterns hid them 
at theii’ last occupation of the fort. They 
are yelloAV and time-stained now, but they 
are very good reading.” 

“ Ah ! I wonder whether they speak of 
Ijebrassien,” Trethewy said. “ He was my 
great-great-grandfather, and I believe he 
soldiered in these parts.” 

“ Lebrassien ? ” Sutherland looked at 
him with keen astonishment. ‘^Lebrassien? 
Isn’t it possible that you know ? And he is 
your forebear ! ” 

“I don’t remember the name, father,” 
said Muriel. 

“ My dear child, General Armand’s name 
was Armand Lebrassien ; the adventurers 
fought for choice under Chrictian or nick¬ 
names. You have come to his favourite 
haunt. Wliy, I have a sheaf of his notes 
and papers here. Let me-” 

He dived towards tlie trunks, and then 
stopped with a rueful expression. The sound 
of a distant gong was tingling in the air. 

“ We mustn’t be late for tea,” he said. 



ARM AN If S TREASURE, 


f)88 



“lie sat up, his mind imprinted with the image of the man upon the wall defying death.” 


“ Your mother doesn’t like it. But still— 
let us slip away after dinner, and I will 
introduce you to a good deal of information 
coneeruiug this great-grandparent of yours. 
Lehi’assien ! I congratulate you upon your 
ancestor, free-lance and mercenary thougli lie 
was. There is no more interesting character 
in eighteenth century history m India.” 


‘‘I wish you would introduce me to his 
vanished fortune, sir. It should be mine,” 
Trethewy said. 

Sutherland lauglied and puslied him 
towards the door. 

“ India is dotted with buried treasure. 
But there’s word of Armand’s in liis letters; 
it will be sufficiently tantalising. We’ll go 





G84 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


over the whole thing later on. I am delighted 
to find someone to take an interest in my 
researches.” 

ITT. 

The three conspirators glanced at each 
other across the drawing-room. The coffee 
tray was disappearing, and Mrs. Transom 
had riveted Mrs. Sutherland’s attention hy 
an appeal to the Caesar of housekeeping. 
Sutherland rose and sauntered on to the 
verandah. Muriel and Trethewy followed, 
and it was not until they were safe upon the 
path that they permitted themselves union 
and speech. 

Muriel Sutherland gave a shudder of 
relief. She had been aware, during dinner 
and after, of a more than usual activity in 
her mother’s supervision ; of a battery of 
eyes that had been upon her and upon 
Trethewy ; and she had felt the self-con¬ 
sciousness of an uneasy spirit. She knew 
Trethewy’s mind : she guessed her own. 
She had fenced and dallied with the situa¬ 
tion ; but surely—surely this uplifting of the 
heart, this thrill of ecstasy, this stir of 
throbbing desire, had come to teach her the 
world-old secret. The presence of the 
soldier was magnetic ; the touch of his sleeve 
against lier arm made her pulses clamour. 
She slipped aside to let Sutherland walk 
between them, and turned her face to the 
cool evening air. 

Light streamed from the door of the bil¬ 
liard-room, and they heard the click of tlie 
balls and the tramp of feet about the table. 
They passed on, with an involuntary pause as 
the shimmering, star-lit plains rose beyond 
the wall, before Trethewy’s nook received 
them. 

“ I think we can give ourselves a clear 
half hour,” Sutherland said. He had stopped 
on the threshold with a glance towards the 
window, and Trethewy wondered why he 
hesitated. Then he stepped into the room. 
“ Turn up the lamp, Muriel. Here are the 
letters.” 

He rummaged in one of the trunks and 
brought up a bundle of papers. Muriel 
curled herself upon an empty box. Trethewy 
stood by the wall behind her, where he could 
see her profile clear cut against the lamp¬ 
light, and watch the rise and fall of the soft 
lace things upon her bosom. Sutherland 
knelt to his hoard, and the yellow, nnsliaded 
light glared upon his face and shining sliirt- 
front, and died in the dusky shadow and in 
the silver haze that was framed by the open 
window. 


“ ‘ Signed, Armand, Colonel' That’s a 
despa tell, yon see, dated from Alibagh in 
1802 , and giving warning of danger from 
a possible descent by Amir T^han. He was 
a Pathan free-lance, and a thorn in the side 
of Scindhia’s men. Arm and measured swords 
with him once, and did not come off with 
flying colours.” 

Trethewy took the tattered note and 
studied it. 

‘Hie wrote a bold hand,” he said. 

“ He was a bold man,” Sutherland said. 
“ Unscrnpnlons perhaps, prodigal of human 
life, and a fire-eater ; but still a man of 
mark. Adventure was the breath of life to 
him. He defended this fort once against a 
force of Pindaris three times the number of 
the garrison, and he headed the party that 
sallied forth, under fire, through our big 
gates, and routed the last assault of tlie 
enemy. He was a straighter man than 
Perron, under whom he served.” 

“ What queer French he wrote !” Trethewy 
said, puzzling over another letter. “ I can’t 
make head or tail of this.” 

“ Let me see.” Sutherland held out his 
hand. “ Ah, yes ! I thought so. This is a 
scrap of his diary. It is very easy to read 
if yon have studied his writing. There— 
“ 16?^^ August, 1803. Received instructions 
to join General Perron at Aligarh with mg 
cavalrg, and with all mg French officers, the 
troops being under-officered now that the 
Englishmen have been dismissed the Maratha 
service. ... I placed Lieutenant Gomez 
in command, and I left to my faithful Mirza 
Khan the charge of mg 2 ')ersonal effects, and 
in particidar of the brass-bound chest. ’ ” 

“ Perhaps that was the treasure ! ” Muriel 
laughed. 

“Well, if so, Mr. Trethewy must look for 
it here,” Sutherland replied with a smile, 
lie followed the crabbed writing Avith liis 
finger, translating the French slowly as he 
AA^ent along. “ It continues — Llefore leav¬ 
ing, Mirza Khan and I disposed of the above 
belongings, and I exacted from him a promise 
that he would heep guard over them so long 
as the fort stood above ground, or until I 
returned.'" 

“ But he never returned.” 

“ No ; they were defeated, and he sur¬ 
rendered aftei’Avards to Wellesley, and sailed 
for France from Calcutta. So, presuming 
that the faithful Mirza perish.ed in defence 
of Ids trust at the capture of tlie fort, we 
may suppose that the brass-bound chest in 
AvhicliAveAvill imagine Mr. TrethcAvy’s treasure 
rests, Avith its desirable contents, in some 


ABJ/AiYD'S' TBEA BURE. 


G85 


liidiiig’-pl<i( 5 C in Ij jliciiii. But this is tritiiiig. 
Here —he pluii<^ed his arm into the box— 
“ are the notes of liis frays and forays as a 
leader of ^lahi’atta horse, a priceless record 
of life in stirring times.” 

He began to hunt the papers over for the 
tit-bits, but the attention of his audience 
liad lost its keenness. The notion of the 
hidden inheritance possessed Trethewy : he 
was a matter-of-fact young man as a rnle, 
bnt this wild conjecture had seized his 
interest. His eyes met Muriel’s, and a girl’s 
leaning towards the delightful impossibilities 
of romance made her gness his thoughts and 
nod, with sparkling eyes, in answer. For the 
moment they were children in fairyland, even 
as the elder man among his faded letters and 
his dreams, and then a sound outside tumbled 
all three back to the world of realities. 

A hum of voices that had been growing 
in the billiard-room paused as Mrs. Suther¬ 
land called to her husband and her daughter 


to join in a mixed game. Sutherland 
shidtled his possessions regretfully back into 
the box, with a promise that he would claim 
Trethewy for them in the morning, dusted 
his knees, and whisked himself and his charges 
out of the room. They emerged into the 
lamplight with studied nnconscionsness, and 
fell to diligently chalking cues and avoiding 
the ruling eye. 

T’retliewy went to bed that night with his 
mind in a tnmnlt. It was impossible not to 
heed what the evening had told him of 
Muriel Sutherland’s heart. He longed to 
bid her hear and confess the tie between 
them ; it was only by an intense effort of 
will that he could keep himself from her, 
now that he knew that thei’e was in her an 
echo of the love that cried in him. The 
craving was masterful; was it not hard for 
her, too, to withstand ? And then there 
would creep out a recollection of his resolu¬ 
tions ; of the barrier of poverty that shut 
him out of hope, and that sliowed him 
wlierein lay the true chivalry and honour. 
It was not for him to speak ; it was only left 
to him to trust that his sword and his wits, 
and perhaps some 
of the daring of his 
far-away ancestor, 
might somehow, 
some day, bring him 
opportunity and 
happiness. And if 
other sign were 
needed of the neces¬ 
sity for present self- 
control, it could be 
seen in the cold dis¬ 
approval of Mrs. 
Sutherland’s atti¬ 
tude. Her husband 
was not to be counted 
upon as much of an 
ally; otherwise his 
open friendship, 
which had culmin¬ 
ated in escorting him 
to bed with a dozen 
anxious wishes for 
his night’s good rest, 
might have cheered 
Trethewy a little. 
He tossed about in 
his bed restlessly, 
until the new, half- 
frightened look in 
Muriel’s eyes, and 
the unreasoning de¬ 
light with which, 







G86 


THK ]yTNl)SOn MAGAZINE, 


even in his depression, its revelation filled 
him, became blurred and indistinct, and 
finally faded altogether into oblivion. 

IV. 

Trethewy struggled painfully in his sleep. 
He fought for consciousness, and night¬ 
mares rose up against him, niglitmarcs 
of snapping flintlocks and flashing tulwars, 
and the scuffling of brown men \vho fired 
and hacked, and were diH'en back through 
the puddles of their own blood. The 
Ujhani stronghold, as the grip of the dream 
forced him to see it, echoed with shots and 
shrieks, and everywhere, in the blue shadows 
as in the glaring sunlight, waves of men 
dashed upon each other and spattered a spray 
of death between them. He could recognise 
the isolated billiard-room even in the altered 
aspect of the fort, and he saw that the 
attacking party would soon be swarming 
about it. A little desperate knot of de¬ 
fenders swayed and struggled between it and 
the barrack, and each time one of them 
dropped the enemy surged forward and cap¬ 
tured yet another yard of ' the ti*ampled 
earth. But the most striking incident—the 
details were then, and after, amazingly dis¬ 
tinct—was the spectacle of a big bearded 
native officer, who, upright on the wall 
beyond the treasure-house, stood out as a 
target for every oncoming musket, and 
fired and reloaded with the precision of 
parade. His reckless courage seemed to 
have madness in it, for when, still un- 
ymunded, he had emptied his powder-horn, 
he tossed the firearm into space and wheeled 
about, up and down the level surface of the 
wall. He paced, with a sentry’s measured 
tread, to and fro for a full minute ; and then 
a bullet found him out and toppled him 
after his useless weapon ; and, with the tramp 
of those defiant feet ringing in his ears, 
Trethewy started from his pillow. 

. . . The dream had a convincing reality. 
It was not until he had rubbed his eyes and 
stared about him that he knew its place was 
in the dusty eighteenth century, and that 
he was in possession of the quiet godown, 
with its open window looking into the eye of 
the stars, and the thick night shadows rolled 
about its corners. It took him some time to 
remember that he was not in the midst of a 
bloody fight between two swarms of Indian 
mercenaries, but that he was Trethewy, to 
whom love, instead of war, was still the ruling 
passion. 

“ That must have been Mirza Khan ! ” 

He sat up, his mind imprinted with the 


image of the man upon the wall, defying 
death with insolent contempt. The words of 
the diary rose up before him, and the thought 
ran through his brain that he had seen a 
revelation of the last bitter fulfilment of the 
trust. His confused thoughts had no doubt 
but that the grim soldier, towering stiffly 
against the sky-line, Avas the warden of 
Armand’s hidden treasure. 

The dream spun suddenly into obscurity, 
chased aAA^ay by a sound that made Trethewy’s 
heart throb. 

He Avas Avide aAvake noAv, thoroughly back 
in a commonplace age, and yet a numbness, 
only to be described as something cold and 
paralysing, stole upon him. For the sound 
that he had heard Avas the steady tramp of 
feet groAving nearer upon the wall. It passed 
the AvindoAv, where still the stars shone un¬ 
dimmed, and it SAA^elled and faded again, as if 
the passer-by had turned and retraced his 
steps. It AA^as the incident of his dream, 
translated into something that a man could 
feel and hear. 

TretheAA-y AA’as not nervous ; but there Avas 
an insistence in the footsteps that held him 
in aAve, and that clogged his desire for action. 
He sat up in bed, unable to stir, his hearing 
so preternaturally sharpened that he could 
hear every undercurrent of sound in the old 
fort. There Avas the scampering of rats, the 
drowsy stirring of pigeons in the thatch ; but 
before and above all, the monotonous tread 
of feet. They passed and repassed the 
AvindoAv for a second time, and—there aaus 
nobody to darken it. 

TretheAvy could not have said when they 
ceased. He seemed to haAm been listen¬ 
ing to them for an immeasurable time, 
conscious, as they neared the room, of an 
accession of the deadening chill. He sank 
back, when it became apparent that they 
had gone, on to his pilloAA’S. What manner 
of resting-place AA^as this, wherein sleep and 
aAvakening Avere alike peopled by strange 
and aAA^e-compelling things ? And then, 
as the fear died, and silence muffled his 
straining ears, thoughts and convictions 
crept out and marshalled themselves before 
him. 

^ There AA^as no more sleep for him that 
night. But the unknown thing had passed. 

Sutherland stole out of his bedroom just 
as the rising sun smeared a blood-red finger 
on the face of the fort. The experience of 
years had shown him his inability to revise 
his wife’s commands, but her location of 
TretheAvy had troubled his conscience to 
sleeplessness. The legend of the urseen 


ARMAND\S TREASURE, 


687 


Seiifciy who paced upon the outer wall, with a 
step that brought dismay and terror to those 
that heard it, wtus not an idle tale to him. 
He had heard the footfall, or had been 
convinced that he had : he remembered the 
biting fear of that long-past incident, and it 
shamed him to think that he should be 
unable to save a guest of his from a like 
experience. It was unfair—inhospitable—to 
expose a visitor to the Sentry on the first 
night of his first coming to Ujliani. Besides, 
he liked the lad ; and, h he were not greatly 
mistaken, Muriel, whose guest he was in a 
certain sense, liked him vastly, too. Suther¬ 
land strode swiftly to the godown, to find if 
haply its occupant were astir. 

There was no cause for him to enter the 
room ; Trethewy’s figure was standing upon 
the wall, watching the mists uncurl over the 
plains as the suniight found them out. He 
turned at Sutherland’s exclamation, and 
the older man, glancing up at him, saw 
that his face was pale and his eyes alert and 
burning. 

PI is heart smote him as he spoke. 

“ Have you had a bad night ? ” 

“ Never had a worse,” Trethewy said, with 
contradictory cheerfulness. Then, at sight 
of his host’s expression, “ I say, it is true, 
then, sir ! I see you know. Have you 
heard the footsteps ? ” 

“ Yes . . . yes. We call it the Sentry.” 

“ Ah ! It’s beastly.” Trethewy shivered. 
“ But”—his face blazed—“ I’m at the root of 
the mystery, I think. You remember my 
great-great-grandfather’s words about the 
man whom he pledged to watch his belong¬ 
ings until the fort should crumble ? Well, 
the fort still stands, and the—the Sentry 
walks, and my belief is that we’ll find the 
brass-bound chest here — here — where his 
feet tramped in the night ! ” 

The two stared at each other. 

“ I suppose you think I’m cracked, sir ? ” 
Trethewy said excitedly. “ But you see it’s 
mine—my treasure. Suppose that was why 
the Sentry walked, waiting till he could give 
over charge ? ” 

Mr. Sutherland came up to the wall. His 
eyes were distant; he ^vas searching in the 
recesses of his memory. 

“God forbid that I, who have felt the 
haunting spell of this old-world place so 
often, should laugh if you, too, have fallen 
under it,” he said. “ But I am only a 

middle-aged dreamer, and you-And 

yet there’s a recollection of my boyhood 
here that comes back to my mind.” 


He walked up to the wall and knelt 
upon it. 

“ There was a bit tliat was not mud. It 
felt like stone, I remcm])er,” he said, scratch¬ 
ing at the hard-trodden surface with his 
finger-nails. “ PI ere—no—yes, here. Let 
me see what a knife will do.” 

He scraped, and the baked mud cliipped ofP 
in cakes. 

“ By George ! ” said Trethewy, and with 
that he flung himself on his knees and fell to 
digging with his pocket-knife. They bur¬ 
rowed into the brittle wall with cpiick-coming 
breaths, and then- 

“ It is, it is ! Oh, look, look, sir ! Don’t 
you see ? ” 

“I must get a servant and a spade,” 
Sutherland said. “We’ll have to cut the 
wall aw^ay about it.” 

And while he was gone Trethewy hacked 
and scraped, consumed with a fever to 
disinter the whole of what was clear to be 
seen as a brass-bound box. 

An hour later Sutherland and Armand’s 
descendant sat in the dirt of the dis¬ 
embowelled wall, and hurried their hands 
through the old fighting Frenchman’s hoard. 
It was there, not to be gainsaid in the light 
of sober day, with a mouldering sheaf of 
documents above it that Sutherland said 
might be of as much value as the treasure, 
to prove Trethewy’s claim. They strewed it 
about them in a confusion of rude silver 
bars, and strings of blackened pearls, and 
hundreds of cpiaintly coined gold mohurs. 

“ It must have been nearly half his 
fortune,” Sutherland said. “ Ninety years 
without discovery—here, below our feet. . . . 
No wonder the Sentry guarded it so jealously ! 
But it has found its owner now.” 

He spoke to the air. The news was 
spreading, and Trethewy had deserted work 
for the moment to greet Muriel. She raced 
like a modern Atalanta towards the golden 
spoil, her brain on fire with the remembrance 
of the last evening’s glimpse of fairyland. 

“ Yes, it has come true,” Trethewy said, 
without waiting for her to speak what was in 
her mind. He looked into her eyes and 
caught her outstretched hand. 

Sutherland saw them. 

“ H’m ! Don’t look much like a satellite, 
and with/te the mem-sahib can’t object.’ . . . 
He stopped stacking the coins and looked 
wistfully about the sun-bathed fort. “ We 
haven’t had her long : it will be dull without 
her. And the dreams are scattering,” he 
murmured. 



Copyright 


[7’//e Photographic Union, Munich. 


Zbc Xanguage of Xove. 

From the Picture by Eugen Klimsch. 






THE SALVATION 
ARMY AS A 
SOCIAL FORCE. 

By FRED A. McKEN/JK.* 

T HIRTY-SIX years ago a young 
provincial preacher stood thonglit- 
fnlly gazing at the crowds on Mile 
End AYaste. He saw the enormous gin- 
palaces, too small to contain the mob of 
customers, the homeless beggars slouching 
along the gutter-way, the sweaters’ victims 
hurrying to the warehouses with the black 
cloth-covered packages of slop work, the 
young wives, with blackened eyes, ragged 
gowns, and bare, towzled heads, and the 
reeling men. The visitor was aroused and 
impressed. The sight of so much misery 
wrung his heart, and he there and tlien 
resolved to do what he conld to l)etter the 
lot of these victims of poverty. 

The Salvation Army is the outcome of 
that resolve. I do not propose, in this 
article, to deal with the purely religious 
aspects of the Army’s crusade, but simply to 
sliow something of its work as one of the 
great social forces of the century. That it 
is a great social force few can deny. In a 
single generation it has spread over tlie 
world. It is actively labouring from Dawson 
City and Iceland in the north to Dunedin 
and Cape Town in the south ; from Manila 
and Yokohama in the east to Honolulu in 
the west. Its agents are to-day begging 
their bread in Kandy, teaching isolated 
hsliiug communities in Newfoundland, living 
in the most criminal quarters of AYhite- 
chapel, helping starving gold-seekers on the 
Klondyke, lighting in the beer-gardens of 
Berlin, preaching to ice-bound congregations 
in Finland. Its total income is considerably 
over a million pounds a year ; tlie voluntary 
workers who devote all their time, without 
fee or reward, to its campaign of social 
amelioration number many hundred thou¬ 
sands ; and there is a great baud of nearly 
fourteen thousand picked men and women, 
one and all working for the merest pittance. 


* r’opyrii^lit, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in tlio 
United States of America. 



GKNEHJAL HOOTM. 

Photo by the Salvation Army Stiidio, 100, Cle'‘l:emvell Road, K.O. 


who have given up their lives for the rescue of 
their fellows. The world litis seen nothing 
like it since the gentle Francis preached his 
crusade of self-renunciation many hundred 
years ago. 

AYhen AYilliam Booth stood on that iioav 
historic spot on Mile End AYaste, few, if any, 
would have regarded him as the possible 
founder of a new movement. The son of a 
builder, and himself, in his early teens, a 
worker behind a pawnbroker’s counter, he 
entered the ministry of one of the Methodist 
bodies when little more than a lad. Thougli 
a very earnest speaker, he was not an orator ; 
and he won his way rather by his over¬ 
powering intensity and strength of will than 
by any beauty of diction or voice. He had 
little or no money ; most of his friends were 
in the ' west and north of England ; his 
knowledge of books was limited, and his 
knowledge of men largely confined to the 
types he had met at his revival meetings or 
in the chapels. Yet he had some points in 
his favour. He possessed an enormous fund 
of common sense, he was not bound by 
conventions, he was backed up by an eloquent 
and like-minded wife, and he was willing to 
work day and night, undaunted by any dis¬ 
appointment, to realise his dreams. 

There was at first no idea in Mr. Booth’s 
mind of starting a new organisation or sect. 


G89 




690 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 




The acme of his ambition was to liave a »’ood 
liall near tlie main road, wliere he could 
gatl)er the people in. T\m was at first 
impossible ; but he secured an old and rotten 
tent, and started meetings in it. A storm 
came and destroyed the tent beyond hope of 
repair. Then he rented a dancing-hall for 
Sundays, and used the open air as his field of 
operations on week-days. He had little 
difficulty in getting the people to hear him, 
and soon converts flocked around. His work 
was so successful that people in neighbouring 
districts asked him to come also to them. 
He picked out the best of his converts as his 
assistants, and opened other halls. By 1877 
he thus had missions going on in twenty-nine 
poor districts, and he was assisted by thirty 
helpers devoting all their time to the work. 
He and his evangelists at first organised 
themselves after the model of Methodist 
churches, but this was found cumbersome. 
In 1877, after considerable deliberation, they 
resolved to reorganise and to adopt a 
military system, as the most expeditious and 
adaptable. Eules were drawn up, modelled 
largely on the official regulations of tlie 
British Army—sworn obedience to superiors 
was made one of the key-notes of the move¬ 
ment, the popular election of chiefs was 
wholly abolished. A military phraseology 
was adopted. The different stations or 


MR. BRAMAVELR BOOTH, CHIEF OF STAFF. 
rlinto by the Salvation Army Studio, 10f>, Clerkenwell Road, E.C. 


Photo by Falk,'] 


{New York. 


MRS. BRAMWELL BOOTH. 


churches were called corps ; the ministers of 
each station were named captains and 
lieutenants ; the deacons or elders were 
re-named sergeants ; and the chief was first 
known as the general superintendent, but 
his title got quickly shortened to that of 
General. The name “ Salvation Army ” cair.e 
as a happy inspiration. One of bis assistants 
was writing a description of the workers as 
“a volunteer army against sin and misery.” 
Mr. Booth looked over his shoulder, picked 
up a pen and crossed out the word volunteer. 
“ No,” he said, “ not Yolunteer, but Salva¬ 
tion. We are a Salvation Army.” The 
name was retained. Other striking depar¬ 
tures naturally followed. The central idea 
of the new Army was to force itself on the 
attention of the masses. The leaders quickly 
saw that a uuiform helped to distinguish their 
followers ; that banners formed a rallying 
centre for open-air processionists ; that bands 
of music, however inharmonious their strains, 
attracted the mob. 

The new Army spread like a prairie fire. 
Although started in London, it first made 
its greatest successes in tlie large towns of 
the Midlands, Sheffield, Oldham, and others. 
It excited at once the fiercest opposition and 
the hottest enthusiasm. Cultured people 
were shocked by the language of a few of 
its followers, and many religious folks were 
offended by the innocent blasphemy of some 
of its converts. This was inevitable. Its 






THE SALVATION ARMY AS A SOCIAL FORCE. (591 


evangelists were 
men and women 
drawn from the 
pit-moiitli, the bar- 
parlonr, or the 
streets. The man 
in rags knelt down 
one evening in 
penitence before 
the Army drum ; 
the next night he 
was exhorting 
crowds to follow 
him in his new 
life. He did not 
know the conven¬ 
tional language of 
the churches; pos¬ 
sibly he had never 
darkened a church 
door since his 
childhood. Conse¬ 
quently when he got up to talk of his 
experience, he used phraseology which struck 
educated people as grotesque and offensive. 

To-day the Salvation Army has largely 
outgrown this stage. Time has brought 
development and has given opportunity for 
education which was formerly lacking. Yet 
it is well to remember, when criticising such 
acts, the words of one of the greatest thinkers 


SALVATIONISTS GATIIKIIING IN STUKICT AllARS. 


of this century : The man wlio never does 
a foolish thing will never do anything.” 
The eccentricity of some of the early converts 
served its purpose. Their old companions 
were moved to wrath at their zeal, and all 
over the country riots took place against the 
new evangelists. The Salvationists went on 
undaunted. Tlie police haled them before 
magistrates for disturbing the peace and 
obstructing thoroughfares. 
The Salvationists Avent to 
prison and used tlieir im¬ 
prisonment as fresh adver¬ 
tisement of their cause. Soon 
the wliole country was talk¬ 
ing of them. Bishops debated 
their ways in Convocation ; 
Parliament was the scene of 
many discussions on tlieir 
treatment; every newspaper, 
from the Times downwards, 
gave great space to them. 
The Salvation Army was 
now fully launched. 

Prom then till now the 
story has been one of con¬ 
stant growth and develop¬ 
ment. Prom England the 
work spread, first to Prance 
and the United States, and 
then to tAventy-three dif¬ 
ferent countries or groups 
of countries. The one evan¬ 
gelist on Mile End Waste 
has noAV increased to close 


THE SALVATION ARMY IN SOUTH AFRICA: A STREET SCENE IN 
SIMONSTOWN. 


on fourteen thousand people 
devoting their whole time 





THK WINDSOIl MAGA/JNE. 


(;o-2 



A TllUKKrKNNY SIIELTEll. 


to the work, Ijesides 
ii vast army of 
voluntary workers. 

Tlie assembly in 
the tent has i^rown 
to between six and 
seven thousand 
corps and outposts 
all over the world. 

Wliat has been 
the cause of this ? 

Quite apart from 
the religious ex¬ 
planations, a system 
has been developed 
which deserves 
study simply from 
the point of view 
of organisation. ’At 
the head of the 
whole is the Gene¬ 
ral, and immedi¬ 
ately below him the Cliief of Stalf. These 
control the Army all over tlie world, and 
have absolute power within certain limits to 
direct operations. But the autocracy of the 
General does not imply that he works alone, 
or that he superintends everything himself. 
As a matter of fact, he takes no step of any 
moment without full consultation with his 
workers. Councils of the leaders from all 
parts of the world are lield once every three 
years, in which the chief lines of policy are 
discussed and decided. This system of 
councils prevails right through the Army, 
the officers of the various countries meeting 


in the same way. Nor does tlie autocracy of 
the General give him sole power in controlling 
the income. He has the supreme voice in 
deciding the ways in which the moneys shall 
be spent, but tlie details of expenditure are 
entirely outside his work. They are controlled 
by special committees of selected officers, 
who consider and approve all outlay. The 
General, as is well known, receives no salary 
from the iVrmy, his income having been 
provided by a friend. His expenses, incurred 
in tlie work of the Army, are paid from the 
funds ; but they have to be stated, detailed, 
and signed for like those of any other officer. 

Around tlie 
General and the 
Chief of Staff are 
gathered Avhat is 
known as the fn- 
ternational Staff. 
This is the cream 
of the Army, and 
superintends tlie 
work in every 
nation. Many of 
this Staff are men 
of considerable at¬ 
tainments, familiar 
with four or live 
modern languages, 
skilled leaders of 
the masses. This 
Staff draws up the 
rules by which the 
work in each land 
is directed, over¬ 
looks every part. 



A TWOrENNY SHELTEK. 






THE MLVATTON ARMY AE A SOf'IAL FORGE. 


()!):-{ 




STARTING lAFK AFRESH. 


CLEANING A SHELTER. 




T;:i: 


Its financial exports g;o from 
country to country examining 
the monetary affairs of the 
Army in different nations ; 
its special evangelists keep 
zeal at a flame ; its organisers 
search for weaknesses of ad¬ 
ministration. The work in 
every country or group of 
countries is under the control 
of a Territorial Commissioner; 
the land under him is mapped 
out into provinces, each with 
a colonel or brigadier at the 
head. Thus England is 
divided into twelve provinces. 
These provinces in turn are 
mapped out into divisions, 
each division in charge of a 
major. In England, Loudon 
is one divi¬ 
sion, Kent is 
another, and 
so on. The 


A' a r ions 
branches of 
the Army, or 
corps, in the 
division are 
each in 
charge of a 
captain, as¬ 
sisted by a 
lieutenant. 
No officer, 
s a V e the 
General and 
C hie f o f 


LOADING WASTE-PAPER AT BATTERSEA WHARF. 


Staff, is per- 
m a n e n 11 y 
fixed in the 
same post. 
The captain 
is usually 
shifted to a 
fresh station 


every six 
months: a 
Territorial 
C 0 m m i s - 
sioner holds 
his office, as 
a rule, for 
five years. 

Each sta¬ 
tion, or corps, 
has not only to pay all its 
own expenses, but also to do 
its share towards supporting 
the central organisation, to 
help in the missionary work, 
and to contribute freely to¬ 
wards the “ Darkest Plug- 
land ” operations. for raising 
the outcast. No one is paid 
but the captain and lieu¬ 
tenant. The bandsmen and 
banner-bearers and the rest 
are voluntary workers. Most 
of the Army soldiers are 
poor ; but they are expected 
to each give a weekly con¬ 
tribution to the funds, and 
put at least a penny in the 
collection at every meeting. 
No man is likely to under¬ 
take Salvation xVrmy work 



694 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


for love of gain. The highest salary paid 
is equal to about £800 per annum. The 
Territorial Commissioners, some of them 
controlling thousands of paid officers, get 
three guineas a Aveek and a house. The 
local officers are paid as follows :—Married 
man captain, twenty-seven shillings per 
week, and one shilling per week extra for 
each child under fourteen. Single man 
captain, eighteen shillings per week. Single 
man lieutenant, sixteen shillings per week. 
A woman captain, fifteen shillings per Aveek. 
A Avoman lieutenant, tAvelve shillings per 


for the Avhole Army ; the soldiers in Paris 
are Avorking, not alone for Paris, but for all 
the Avorld. This is Avhy General Booth 
Avould not alloAV his second son to remain as 
head of the Army in the United States Avhen 
he Avanted to make the Army there a separate 
American institution. Another principle of 
the Army is to use men and AA-omen alike. 
Women are open to the highest office equally 
AAuth men. But it is found in actual AA-ork 
that the higher the offices the feAA'er the 
women filling them. Yet one Avoman is at 
the head of the Avork in Scandinavia, another 



A SALVATIONIST CAKPKNTKKS’ RIIOP. 


Aveek. Honse-rent is given in addition, and 
a small percentage on the sales of literature. 
YeA'or Avas there a more baseless taunt than 
that Sah'-ationists are working for AAdiat they 
can make. 

Coming to the principles by AAdiich the 
Ariny is guided, first comes that of discipline. 
Every man must obey his superiors. The 
highest commissioner has to folloAV the Army 
regulations, as AA^ell as the humblest soldier. 
Tlie next great pi’inciple is that of cosmo¬ 
politanism. So far as it can, the Army 
ignores national distinctions. The local 
corps holds its barracks not for itself, but 


is in charge of British North America, and 
several of the editors of the Army journals 
are Avomen. Then everyone is made use of 
in one Avay or another, and the man picked 
from the slums to-day is the preacher or 
singer or doorkeeper of to-mori’OAV. 

General Booth sets his soldiers the example 
of simple life. He is noAv in his seventy-first 
year, but is still an unceasing AA'orker. When 
at home he lives in a modest villa at Hadley 
Wood ; but most of his life is noAV occupied 
AAuth long expeditions all over the Avorld, 
examining and arousing liis felloAv labourers. 
His personal habits are of the plainest. He 




THE SALVATION AtUlY AS A SOCIAL FORGE. 




is, of course, like 
every member of 
the Army, a total 
abstainer, and he 
very rarely eats 
meat. When at 
home he is wholly 
a vegetarian, but 
when travelling he 
often finds it im¬ 
possible to obtain 
vegetarian food 
without giving his 
hosts trouble; in 
such cases he does 
not hesitate to take 
a little meat. Sweets 
of any kind, down 
to the innocent 
pudding, have no 
attraction for him, and he will not touch 
tliem. His chief luxury is a cup of tea—in 
fact, on tea and bread-and-butter he is 
prepared to face the world. 

On this simple diet he gets through the 
most amazing labours. Wlien at home his 
ordinary time of rising is about six in the 
morning. After a cold bath, he goes straight 
to his desk ; and, if he has not been taking 
some great meeting or been on a long journey 
the evening before, he often puts in an hour 


THE IVY EANE llOSPITAE. 

or two of work before l)reakfast. All day 
long he remains unceasingly at work, save for 
a very brief rest after his early dinner. He 
does not stop till eleven or twelve at night. 
Eeports from all over the world come before 
him; he has to receive a number of his leading 
assistants each day to confer on their different 
branches ; he writes very largely himself, 
and makes thorough preparation for any 
meeting he has to lead. He makes free use 
of shorthand-writers, dictating a great deal; 

but much of his 
work is written 
with his own hand. 
In this connection 
he can Avrite as 
freely in train, or 
’bus, or carriage as 
sitting at his own 
desk. He seems 
simply oblivious to 
the jolting of a 
train, and his hand 
travels as swiftly 
and his writing is 
as legible on the 
cars as Avith a more 
steady rest. 

While much has 
been said of General 
Booth, the person¬ 
ality of his eldest 
son, Mr. Bramwell 
Booth, has been 
kept in the back¬ 
ground. Yet Mr. 
BraniAA^ell Booth, 
Avho is the Chief of 
Staff, and second in 


Photos hy-] ic. Pilkington. 

GENEKAE VIEW OE THE SALVATION Ainiv’s GREAT EXHIBITION AT THE 
AGKICULTUKAL HALL. 














THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


eye 




HESCUKI) INDIAN CIIILDUKN. 


coiuinancl of tlie Army, is one of whom 
much will be heard in the future. For 
many years he has given himself up to 
managing the routine, detail business of the 
Army. His work has kept him largely in 
his office in Queen Victoria Street, and he 
can rarely get aAvay from it for more than a 
few' days. Although Salvationists never say 
so, it may, I presume, be regarded as certain 
that he will be the future General. All who 
have come within his influence testify to the 
benevolence of his disposition, the wisdom 
of his judgments, his courage, prudeuce, and 
philanthropic zeal. 

It is sometimes said that the Salvation 
Army is a “ one man concern,” or a “ family 
show^” It is true that General Booth’s sons 
and daughters are among his most successful 
assistants ; but to depict the Army w'ork as 
all in Booth hands is a somewdiat humorous 
exaggeration. Some of the most successful 
and amazing branches of the work have been 
initiated far away from any 
of the Booths. For in¬ 
stance, in the early eighties 
a delicate lad. Captain Pol¬ 
lard, was sent by the General 
to open up Army wmi*k in 
New Zealand. The lad 
seemed consumptive, and the 
leader’s chief hope w'as that 
the change might save his 
life. Young Pollard started 
meetings in Dunedin, and 
to-day the Salvation Army 
is all over New' Zealand. 

Again, in 1880 a young 
Swedish lady. Miss Hanna 
Quell terloney, begged the 
Army to begin w'ork in her 


country. Tlie General im¬ 
plied that he had no one to 
send, and that if w'ork w'as 
to be done there, she must 
herself do it. Miss Ouchter- 
loney took liiin at his w'ord, 
and herself opened up the 
first branch of the Army in 
that country. To-day, in 
Sw'cden alone there are nearly 
a thousand Salvation Army 
officers, and over sixty thou¬ 
sand people attend the meet¬ 
ings each W'cek. The Army 
numbers among its supporters 
])eople of all classes, and the 
Queen of Norw'ayand Sw'eden 
is one of its most enthusiastic 
adherents. From Sw^eden it 
has spread to Finland, Norway, Denmark, 
and Iceland. The same might lie told of 
many other places. In truth, this is no 
one man ” Avork, but a movement in Avhich 
thousands of busy and clever brains play 
their part. 

It is one of tlie glories of The Army that 
it is a great discoA’erer of unrecognised 
talent. Many of the most successful of its 
leaders are men and w'omen AAdio formerly 
occupied very humble positions. A number 
of its best women evangelists Avere once 
domestic serA'ants or mill-Avorkers. The 
humble clerk, the rough navvy, tlie man 
called from the bar ” (or taproom), and 
the mechanic haA'e each shown that, given 
opportunity and right training, they can con¬ 
trol masses, move men, successfully manage 
thousands of their fellow's, and, in short, 
give evidence of much of the gift of states¬ 
men. But the Army officers are by no 
means all draw'ii from the poorer classes. 


THE SAI.VATION ARMY IN LAIM.ANI). 

Two typical scenes represented in the S'nlmtionist Exhibition at the AgriciiUtirol Hall. 
Photographs by C. Pilkington. 





THE SALVATTOH ARMY .1,S' A EOrrAL FORCE. 


fin? 



y.VA.V. KHAAL. 


1890. Peo])le got the idea 
that ])y this one scheme an 
end was to ])e made to all 
the worst want of the Me¬ 
tropolis. Snell an idea was, 
of course, ahsnrd. No one 
crnsade, however vast, could 
hope to touch more than a 
fragmentaiy part of the needs 
of our poor. But it has 
done a great amount of solid 
work, and, considering the 
expenditure, the good accom¬ 
plished has been marvellous. 


Among those who nave freely 
adopted the life of poverty 
and self-sacrilice the work 
entails may he found Euro¬ 
pean nohles, the daughters 
of American millionaires, 
English clergymen, and a 
consideralile nuniher of Uni¬ 
versity men. 

No sketch of the Salvation 
Army is now complete which 
does not tell something of 
it’s “Darkest England” work. 
This work has suffered in 
the public estimation by the 
exaggerated estimates of its 
results with which it was 
initiated in the autumn of 


Tn?: ciiildkkn’s 

HAND OF LOVE. 



FKANC1-: AND SWITZEHLAND. 

Typical scenes from the Salvation Army’s Exhibition at the Agriculiural Hall. 
Photographs by C. Pilkington. 


The total income of the “ ])arkest 
England ” scheme last year was 
£^8,000, of which the greater 
amount was contributed by Sal¬ 
vationists themselves. For this 
expenditure a million and a half 
people were dealt with. 

The beginning of the social 
work is to be seen in the cheap 
shelters scattered all over London. 
In tliese shelters, which accom¬ 
modate fifteen thousand, a home¬ 
less man or woman can get a scat 
in a Avarm room for a penny a 
night, a bed for twopence, or a 
bed with a sheet for threepence. 
Food can be had at the lowest 
rates, and for twopence a hungry 
visitor can get his fill. In an 
ideal community, of course, Ave 
Avonld not have these shelters. 
They arc rough, and their ac¬ 
commodation is not luxurious. 







698 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



SALVATIONISTS FROM MANY COUNTRIKS. 
riiotographal at the Agricultural Hall by ('. Pillcington. 


But to-day, with thousands of the Tjondoii 
poor, the roughest shelter is aii asylum of 
bliss. Many a mother and children, and 
many a poor fellow, are kept from the 
streets by these cheap shelters, and from 
starvation by the cheap meals. I know by 
personal examination of London streets on 
winter nights that there are much fewer 
homeless wanderers on our streets—although 
still too many—than there were before the 
shelters were instituted. 

In connection with housing the poor, a 
fresh extension is to be immediately made. 
The Army chiefs are convinced of the great 
evils that arise from the want of decent 
lodging-house accommodation, of a better 
class than slieltcrs, for women. There is 
now practically nowhere for a respectable, 
homeless woman to go, save to a common 
lodging-house or cheap coffee-house. Those 
who know what our mixed common lodging- 
houses or cheap coffee-houses are need not 
be told that for most women it would be 
better that death took them ere they crossed 
their thresholds. The Army intends to 
build a great hostel for women, to accom¬ 
modate about 450, in Old Street. The house 
Avill cost about £25,000, and if it at all 
realises the xirmy’s expectations it would be 
impossible for money to be better expended. 

The cheap shelters are the beginning of 
the rescue work. The lodgers are free to 
come or go as much as they please. Notices 
are posted up inviting those who need aid to 
apply to the officers in charge. As one of 
the notices reads, “ No man need starve or 
beg, or pauperise, or steal, or commit suicide. 
If willing to woik, let him apply within.” 


Those ANdio apply 
are put tlirough 
simple tests. Do 
they want to try to 
lead a better life ? 
Are they willing to 
work ? If so, they 
are drafted off to 
the Army “ Eleva¬ 
tors ” or workshops. 
Here they are set 
to work at wliatever 
they can do. The 
unskilled man is 
given wood-chop- 
ping, rag - sorting, 
or the like. The 
tradesman is em¬ 
ployed on his craft. 
The prisons are 
visited each morn- 
iiig by prison gate officers, who receive men 
at the expiration of their sentences and offer 
them the chance of a fresh start in life. 
There are about a hundred men in the 
Ex-Prisoners’ Home at Argyle Square, and 
everything is done to start them again in the 
world. They collect waste from all over 
London, calling at offices and houses, taking 
away rubbish, and turning it into profitable 
material. The work among ex-prisoners is 
even more difficult than that among the 
merely destitute. ]\Iany of the men, particu¬ 
larly those who have served long sentences, 
are absolutely incapacitated for ordinary work. 
Their brains seem to have gone with the long 
confinement; for it is too true that a long 
sentence of penal servitude means, not alone 
that the man shall serve his time in the stone 
walls, but that he shall come out with weak¬ 
ened brain, a wreck for the rest of his life. 
Thus it is that many of the ex-prisoners 
have delusions ; they imagine usually that 
“ someone is down on them ” ; and they 
have to be coaxed and strengtliened. 

There are some very old convicts in the 
Army homes. In Argyle Square, when I 
visited it, there were three men who between 
them had served over a hundred years of 
imprisonment. But even here there are 
great results. Our various Colonial Govern¬ 
ments have shown their appreciation of the 
Salvation Army prison work by making 
monetary grants to it; and in this country 
the prison authorities are granting more and 
more facilities to the Army to enable them 
to reach the prisoners. 

Altogether over 2,GOO people are received 
in the “Elevators” each year, and 873 ex- 





THE SALVATION ARMY AS A SOCIAL FORCE. 


GOO 


criminals arc taken into the Homes. Kcarly 
twenty tlionsand people are found employ¬ 
ment, and two thousand women received in 
the Eesene Homes. Tlicn there is the great 
Farm Colony at Hadleigli, in Essex, where a 
nnmher of the best of the wastrels arc trained 
and given work in country pursuits. This 
Farm Colony, with its great host of agencies, 
would want an article to itself if it were to 
be adequately described. It has been pursued 
by many misfortunes, including enormous 
loss through a very heavy flood. To-day it 
has conquered all its adversities, and is going 
right ahead. Ibit its work must remain in¬ 


complete until the promised over-sea Colony 
is opened, where the men can be taken right 
out of England, to start a new life under 
liappier auspices. This Colony is shortly to 
be established. 

It is impossible in one sketch to giV'C more 
than the merest outline of some of the lead¬ 
ing sections of the work of the Salvation 
Army. Like every other human organisation, 
it has its weaknesses and has had its failures. 
But that its leaders arc sincerely doing their 
best to upraise humanity, few, if any, who 
have at first hand examined its work, will 
dispute. 



A STI DY. 
liij Eevtie lU.e-e 















HE SHORT SHRIFT OF 
THE FILIBUSTER. 


Bv FRANCOIS GRlBBLli* 


‘‘Yoyoxs!” 
said Strom- 
l)oli, as lie 
caught lue 
coming out 
of tlie gate 
of Li n - 
coin’s Inn, 
clutched me 
by the arm, 
and dreiv 

me into the Chancery Lane Bodega. “ On 
the proceeds of my former story I have 
dined—dined sumptuously—dined several 
times. Think of it! Several dinners for 
one story ! It is an advantage over the 
plutocracy and the hourgeoisie at which, my 
heart rejoices.” 

“ But how about the creditors ?” I 
inquired, as we settled down at a small table 
in a corner. 

Stromboli lit his large pipe meditatively. 

“ The creditors ! Precisely. That is the 
weak point in my position. The great 
happiness of having money to spend caused 
me to forget them. Nevertheless, they still 
exist, and now that the ]uoney is gone they 
write, recalling themselves to my recollection. 
It is unfortunate. For it seems that, even 
in this free country of yours, the law gives 
them the power to make themselves 
unpleasant.” 

I assented, and tried to explain to him the 
exact nature of a judgment summons and a 
committal order. Then I continued— • 

“ But you know other stories, I suppose ? ” 

Stromboli banged the table and made the 
glasses ring, as he answered, half in derision, 
half in indignation— 

“ If I know other stories ! He asks if I 
know other stories. When I tell you that 
I— mol qui vom imrle —have lain under sen¬ 
tence of death in a Spanish prison at 


* Copyriglit, 1900, by Fnincis Gribble, in tlie United 
States of America. 


lUvstrated hy Hmry 


Santiago de Cuba, and escaped from it under 
circumstances which will not occur again-” 

“That sounds all right,” I interrupted. 

“ You really think so ? ” 

“ I am (juite sure of it.” 

“Then I must make haste. The letters 

of the creditors begin, ‘ Unless-’ There 

is evidently no time to be lost.” 

“ There is no time like the present,” I 
rejoined. 

“ Let us begin, then. And, since more 
money is in sight, there is no reason why I 
should not spend the little money that 
remains to me. You shall drink champagne 
with me, and we will smoke cigars.” 

And then and there, in the corner of the 
Bodega, while the men about us talked of the 
business of the Law Courts, and of the price of 
shares, Stromboli wafted me, in imagination, 
to the shores of the pearl of tlie Antilles, 
and told me the story which I entitled— 

The Short Shrift of the FiLiiiusTER. 

“ Yoyom 1 Filibustering is an important 
branch of revolution. Though your motives 
be of the loftiest, yet, if the other side catch 
you at it, they will shoot you. The danger 
is the greater because you are generally on 
the weaker side, and therefore likely to be 
caught. It is a quick gamble for the 
heaviest of stakes. I know, for I have 
played the game. I have been a filibuster. 

“ It was in Cuba in the early seventies. The 
island was in revolt, and help was being sent 
to the rebels by the brave citizens of the 
United States. And one day, as I sipped 
my absinthe in the Cafe de Madrid, I was 
handed a telegram from New York, which 
ran as follows— 

“ ‘ Offer you commission in Cuban Army. 
Start at once ; begin as general. Kapid 
promotion if found satisfactory.’ 

“I thumped the table and showed the 
despatch to my companion. 

“ ‘ To begin as general! ’ I cried. ‘ Is 
this a pleasantry at my expense, or is it not ? ’ 


700 






THE SHORT SHRIFT OF THE FILIBUSTER, 


701 



“ My companion, Avho was a man who had ‘ In that case, my friend, it is not a plea- 

travelled widely, assured me that it was not. santry, but an affront. Or is it that they are 
‘‘ ‘ You think,’ I asked, ‘ that no Cuban afraid of exciting the jealousy of the other 

would dare to venture upon a pleasantry generals, I wonder ? I must reflect.’ 

with, Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski ? ’ “I reflected in silence for at least two 
“ ‘ I am quite sure,” he answered, “ that no minutes. Then, having made up my mind, 

Cuban would spend the cost of this cable- I asked my friend— 

gram in doing so.’ “ ‘ Do you happen to know what uniform is 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ required by a general in the Cuban service ? ’ 

“ ‘ Besides, you must remember that in “ ‘ In the Central American armies,’ my 

Central iVmerican armies there is no lower friend answered, ‘ every general wears the 

commissioned rank than that of general. uniform that suits him best.’ 

You are invited to l)egin, like other people, “ ‘ x\nd do you know when the next boat 
at the bottom of the ladder.’ starts for New York ? ’ 

“ ‘ In exactly forty - eight 
hours from now.’ 

“ ‘ In that case there is no 
time to be lost. I will drive to 
the tailor’s and select a uniform 
at once.’ 

‘‘ With such celerity did I 
form my plans. The uniform 
reached me just in time, neatly 
packed in a tin box, with my 
name painted on it. I dressed 
myself in it for the first time 
when I had crossed the Atlantic, 
and proceeded to report myself 
to the Culjan Junta at New 
York. It was an imposing 
uniform—scarlet and gold lace, 
Avith a cocked hat and flaunting 
plumes. It caused no little 
admiration Avhen, failing to find 
‘“I am the new Cuban a more suitable conveyance, I 
general.”’ clestiliatiou Oil a 

tramcar. I doubt not that it 
would have made an even greater impression than it did 
if the Cuban Junta had not happened, at the moment of 
my call, to be represented by a Yankee. 

“ ‘ Great snakes alive ! ’ was that gentleman’s first 
exclamation, to which I replied with dignity— 

“‘YYu are mistaken, sir. I am the new Cuban 
general—Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski.” 

“At this he extended his hand to me cordially, con¬ 
tinuing in the quaint language of the United States— 

“ ‘ Glad to see you. General. Proud to make your 
acquaintance, sir. Keckon you’re going to knock the 
saAvdust out of those durned Spaniards presently. But, 
in the meantime, if you’re in a position to put up the 
greenbacks, hadn’t you better buy a store suit to go on 
Avith ? Your present outfit, though very striking, is 
better adapted for dictating terms of peace upon the 
held of carnage than I'or tlie requirements of everyday life 
in NeAV York City— the more so as there is no purpose 
to be served by shoAviiig our plans under the nose of 
the U.S. Government.’ 

“ He Avas evidently a practical man—nearly all 
Americans are practical men—and I agreed Avith him 


702 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


tliat it would be easier to keep a secret iu a 
store suit than in a uniform. It was in my 
store suit, therefore, that I went down 
according to liis directions, to secure my 
passage to Cuba on board the paddle- 
steamer WaHliington. And here, once again, 
I found myself face to face with a practical 
American. 

“ ‘ What is your name, sir ? ’ he incpiired 
when I asked that a cabin should be 
retained for me, and I told him. 

“ ‘ It is a name that you should know,’ I 
said. ‘ I am Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosna- 
pulski.’ 

“ He did not seem to know me. This time, 
I imagine, it was my store suit that operated 
to my disadvantage. He answered me in 
the usual vernacular— 

“ ‘ Seems, stranger, that’s more name than 
there is room for in the space provided. 
Reckon if I enter yon on this ship’s books as 
John A. Strongboiler, that’s name enough for 
you to sail under. Then, in case of accidents, 
you can say you’re an American citizen, 
trading in cigars, and claim the protection 
of the Stars and Stripes.’ 

‘‘ He was evidently a thoroughly practical 
man. As a rule, it may be undignilied for a 
general officer to disguise himself as a cigar 
merchant. But circumstances alter cases, 
and the circumstances were exceptional. So 
I consented, and the American shook me by 
• the hand, saying— 

“ ‘ Right, General. John A. Strongboiler 
doesn’t need learning by heart, like the other 
name. And now, to show that no offence is 
taken, kindly name your poison.’ 

“ So we pledged each other in a curiously 
concocted beverage, with plenty of powdered 
ice in it; and thus it was, as you see, under 
the strange style of John A. Strongboiler, 
dealer in cigars, that I sailed from New 
York City in the paddle-steamer Wasldngton 
(Captain, Jonathan K. Jenkins), to take up 
my position as a general in the Cuban Army. 
If I could only have foreseen ! But I must 
not anticipate. 

“We touched at Kingston, Jamaica, where 
we took aboard a cargo of various munitions 
of war, together with a number of fresh 
passengers—brave men who, like myself, 
had enlisted as generals in the Cuban service. 
I invited tliem all to drink with me, and they 
did so, for it is the custom of the country. 
For the rest, the voyage was uneventful 
until the hour wlien our terrible catastroplie 
began. 

“ It was early, and I had left my berth to 
pace the deck and enjoy the fresh coolness 


of the morning air. Captain Jonathan K. 
Jenkins was there also. Through his 
telescope he was intently observing the 
movements of some craft which he evidently 
regarded with suspicion. Finally he closed 
the glass with a bang and said laconically— 

“ ‘ Wal, I’m durned ! ’ 

“ ‘ What is it. Captain ? ’ I asked, and he 
replied, in the American language— 

“ ‘ That’s a Spaniard, or I’m a Dutchman. 
And looking out for us. And meaning 
niiscliief. Guess, if we don’t make tracks, 
it’ll be a bad look out for all you generals.’ 

“ ‘Would you like me to call a council of 
war. Captain ? ’ I suggested. ‘ The other 

generals are still asleep, "but-’ 

“He answered curtly— 

“ ‘ Council of war be durned ! Reckon 
I’m the captain of this ship, any way, and 
what I say goes.’ 

“ And with that he shouted orders right 
and left, and altered the ship’s course, and 
the long chase began. 

“ Shall I describe it ? That, surely, is 
hardly necessary. One chase at sea is very 
like another. Only in this chase there were 
one or two moments that have specially 
branded themselves upon my memory. 

“For hours onr pursuer had gained upon 
us, but so slowly that we were hardly aware 
of his approach and were confident of reach¬ 
ing a British port in safety. Then came the 
engineer with the terrible message— 

“‘Sorry, Captain, but we’re just about 
through Avith the coal.’ 

“ Never shall I forget the quick energy 
Avith Avhich Captain Jonathan K. Jenkins 
confronted the emergency. He hardly 
seemed to be excited. 

“ ‘ Wal,’ he said. ‘ Ain’t there other 
things that’ll burn besides coal. Ain’t there 
oil ? Ain’t there hams and bacon ? Ain’t 
there chairs and tables ? Fling ’em in. 
Fling the durned ship herself into the 
furnaces sooner than let the engines stop.’ 

“ We did it. I myself—Jean Antoine 
Stromboli Kosnapulski — Avorked like a 
common sailor, tearing np the planks and 
heAving doAvn the bulwarks to supply the 
flames Avith fuel. Others, meanwhile, AA’ere 
busy lightening np the ship by heaving cargo 
overboard. Even the horses that Ave carried 
AAuth us had to be throAvn into the AA^ater. 
My heart bled for those poor horses as I saAV 
their struggles ; for, after all, it Avas a 
useless sacrifice. The Spaniard gained on us 
continually as Ave neared the Jamaica coast. 
Shots crossed our bows, warning us to 
surrender or be sunk. 



THE mORT SHRIFT OF THE FILIBUSTER, 


708 



think that I can save jour ship ])y jumping 
overboard, you have only to say tlie word 
and I’ll do it.’ 

“ Still overawing the mutinous sailor’s 
with the pistol, the captain gripped me 
by the hand. 

“ ‘ Strongboiler,’ he said, ‘ you’re a 
gentleman, though Dagos don’t run 
to it as a rule. But we don’t do 
these things on board American 
vessels. AYe sink or swim 
together.’ 

“ And with that he gave the 
order to heave to, and the 
Spaniards boarded us. The 
captain greeted them with 
violent language. 

“ ‘ What the blazes ! 
These are British waters, 
ain’t they ? Jamaica 
three-mile limit. And 
this is the United States 
trading steamer. Wash- 
wgton, cleared from 
Kingston, Jamaica, 
for San Domingo. If 
you’ve got your 
doubts about it, look 
at the ship’s papers 
and be durned ! ’ 

“‘You can show 
your papers to the 
Governor, Avhen you 
get to Santiago de 
Cuba,’ was the 
Spanish officer’s re¬ 
ply. ‘ In the mean¬ 
time, yon are my 
prisoners, and it’s 
there that I’m going 
to take you.’ 

“He disarmed ns 
all and put a prize 
crew on board ; and 
the Spanish gunboiif 
Tornado took the trading steamer Washington 
in tow, and headed straight for Santiago 
Harbour. 

“ Santiago de Cuba ! To think that one 
of the loveliest spots upon God’s earth should 
be given over to the abominations of these 
butchers ! 

“ It was just at sunrise, on one of the love¬ 
liest mornings that I have ever known, that 
we made our way slowly through the narrow 
entrance to the bay. On either side of us 
low ridges of rolling hills, crowned with dark 
woods and ^'erdant meadows ; the bright 
plumage of tropical birds glancing among 


“ ‘ Strongboiler,’ he said, 
‘ you're a gentleman.’ ” 


“ Then it was that a sudden uproar arose 
among the sailors. 

“ ‘ ’Tain’t the horses the Spaniards want. 
It’s the ])agos. Fling them out a few Dagos 
and they’ll stop worriting fast enough.’ 

“ It was one of those chances that a man 
gets now and then of showing the metal that 
he is made of. The Cubans had drawn their 
knives ; the crew were ready to rush upon 
them with oars and marling-spikes and every 
other handy weapon ; Captain Jenkins had 
cocked his revolver and was prepared to 
shoot. I saw my opportunity and stepped 
forward to calm the tumult. 

“‘Captain,’ I said, ‘let there be no 
question of throwing me overboard. If you 



704 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



lU 


“ As well as my fetters would let 
me, I pointed.” 


trees where we 
the shore 
beside the forest; here 
and there in the dis¬ 
tant uplands the white 
walls of some country 
house, with the blue smoke 
rising like incense, untroubled by any breath 
of air. A scene of greater peacefulness 
could hardly be, save for the blue fins of tlie 
sharks that followed us, as though aware 
that we were journeying to our doom. 

“ Yet I held my head high in spite of all. 
Something might always happen ; some 
chance might always show itself to the man 
who gave his whole mind to watching for it. 
Your true gambler with Death never loses 
liope until the hour actually comes when he 
must pay the forfeit. 

“ It seemed, however, that that hour was 
very near and quite inevitable. A message 
was conveyed to us. 

‘ A court-martial, for the trial of the 
prisoners, will sit at noon, in the Tornado^ 
under the presidency of General Burriel, 
Governor of Santiago.’ And you know 


what a Spanish court-martial 
is ! It is the modern form of 
the Spanish Inquisition. Its 
purpose is not to judge, but to 
condemn. So that I had little 
hope of justice and less of 
mercy when my turn came to 
be haled before it. Only of 
one thing I was resolved. 

“ ‘ At least,’ I said to myself, 
‘ I will hold my head high . 
At least I will not beg for 
pity.’ 

“ My turn came. 

“ Informal, but ferocious ; 
that is how I must descril)e the 
court that sat in judgment over 
me. A pleasant awning Avas 
hung upon the deck. A table, 
with pens, ink, and paper upon 
it, Avas set for the president of 
the court. The other officers 
composing it lounged around, 
in a semicircle, in comfortable 
chairs. They drank and smoked 
cigarettes, and laughed gaily 
together, as though the sen¬ 
tencing of men to death Avere 
the most agreeable diversion 
that they kneAA^ And I stood 
before them, handcuffed and 
guarded by marines. 

“ ‘ What do you say that 
your name is ? ’ Avas the first question put 
to me, and my ansAver Avas defiant. 

“ ‘ It is a name that you know well enough. 
I am Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapnlski.’ 

“ For I had forgotten. The president had 
a list of the creAV and passengers in front of 
him, and desired me to find my name in it. 
As AA^ell as my fetters Avould let me, I pointed, 
and then, Avlien it AA^as too late, I perceived 
the blunder that I had made. 

“ A grim and cruel smile appeared upon 
General Burriel’s face. From the paper in 
front of him he read aloud the Avords— 

“ ‘ John A. Strongboiler, dealer in cigars.’ 
Then he pointed to me, and to the tin box, 
AAitli ‘ Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski ’ 
painted on it, Avhich lay upon the deck Avith 
other ^pieces tie conviction^ ready to be used 
AAffien needed. Then he spoke sloAAdy, AAith 
a bitter ring in his lines— 

“ ‘ Untie the prisoner and let him open the 
box. Without doubt it is his cigar-box. 
If it is found to contain enough cigars to 
give tlie members of this court one liundred 
each, I undertake that the prisoner shall be 
acquitted.’ 




THt: SHORT SHRIFT OF THE FILIBUSTER. 


705 


“ AYell, I have no surprise in store for you. 
You know quite well what was in the box. 
Under the Imyonets of the marines I un¬ 
packed it defiantly ; and as each article came 
forth—the cocked hat, the heavy boots, the 
scarlet tunic, the pipe-clayed breeches—the 
deck of the Toiiiado literally sliook with 
shrieks of laughter. Yes, for the first and 
last time in my life, I, Jean Antoine 
Stromboli Kosnapulski, was laughed at to my 
face. 


me because I had afforded them amusement. 
If so, it was a thought that was dispelled 
w’ith great rapidity. The members of the 
court-mai'tial conferred aloud, with mocking 
laughter. 

“ ‘ A man who travels under a false 
name-’ 

“ ‘ Talks Spanish-’ 

‘‘ ‘ Says that he is an American-’ 

“ ‘ Though apparently a Pole-’ 

‘‘ ‘ And carries a nniform about with him 



“ Perhaps for an instant the thought crossed 
my mind that these men wmuld be merciful to 


in a box- 


“ ‘ AVhich lie pretends is a cigar-box- 
“ ‘ Is a very interesting scoundrel- 


“‘Yoii know well that I 
can throttle you where you 


stand. 


held 


But none the less unfit to live !’ 

“And General Burriel summed the 
matter up and delivered formal 
sentence. 

“‘Prisoner, the sentence 
of the court upon you is 
that you be shot at dawn. 
Marines, remove the 
prisoner.’ 

“They proceeded to 
remove me ; but before 
I had left the ship he 
called me back again. 

“ ‘ Prisoner,’ he said 
gravely, ‘ in consider¬ 
ation of the fact that 
you have amused the 
court, the court has 
decided upon a miti¬ 
gation of your sen¬ 
tence.’ Hope flattered 
me again, but only 
for an instant. The 
president continued 
wA t li a 11 evil 
chuckle— 

“ ‘ Prisoner, the 
court accords you 
permission to put on 
it until the hour of 


your nniform and wear 
your execution.’ 

“Once more there 
uproari ous merrim ent. 


an outburst of 
military judges 


their hilaritv, wdiile the 


away through jeering 
Santiago 


their sides in 
marines marched me 

crowds to lodge me in the Santiago prison 
They insolentiy made me dress myself in my 
uniform in their presence, and then they 
door of my cell and left me to my 


locked the 
reflections. 

“ My reflections ! 
w’ere not agreeable. 


You may guess that these 
Since American protection 
had failed me, my one hope was tliat, by some 
means or other, I niiglit get on board the 
British gunboat that wris lying at anchor in 










TOG 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


the harbour, and, as I had been captured in 
British waters, claim tlie protection of the 
Union Jack. But how to get there ? That 
was, indeed, a problem that needed thinking 
out. 

‘‘ Sitting for a space with inj head buried 
in my hands, I thought it out in all its bear¬ 
ings. Presently I saw my way—or thought I 
saw it—and my courage and high spirits 
returned to me. Though I had to use a 
subterfuge, I would not be humble. 

“ I stood upon the stool, which was my 
only article of furniture, bringing my face 
level with the window through which my cell 
communicated Avith the passage, and called— 

“ ‘ Gaoler ! Come here, gaoler ! I want 
you, gaoler ! ’ 

“ I am aware that I spoke in the same 
commanding tone in which I should have 
summoned the boots or theAvaiterat an hotel. 
I could not help it. It is a AA-ay that I have 
always had, and a Avay that I have generally 
found ansAver. It answered in this case. 
The man came, groAvling. 

‘‘ ‘ What is the meaning of this, gaoler ? ’ 
I asked curtly. 

“ ‘ What is the meaning of Avhat ? ’ he 
retorted roughly. 

‘‘ ‘ Of this, gaoler—that I, a prisoner con¬ 
demned to be shot at daAvn, have not yet 
received a visit from any spiritual adviser ? 
Ev^en in Spain, I believe, a prisoner con¬ 
demned to die lias a right to spiritual 
consolation.’ My speech, I dare say, sounded 
more like a reprimand than a request ; but 
it made none the less impression upon that 
account. AVhy should it have ? In all 
situations in life the Avay to secure deference 
is to be peremptory. My severity compelled 
politeness. 

“ ‘ Of course, if his Excellency desires to 
see a priest-’ 

“ ‘ Certainly, gaoler,’ I ansAA^ered. ‘ Cer¬ 
tainly I Avail t to see a priest. And the 
sooner the better. ]3e so good as to tell one 
of the priests to step this Avay at once.’ 

“ He had already started, AAdien I called 
him back. 

“ ‘And, look here, gaoler. I’m Amy parti¬ 
cular about priests. I can’t accept consolation 
from a little priest. I must have a big one.’ 

“ The gaoler stared at me, evidently 
believing that I Avas mad. But there was 
method in my madness, as you Avill see. I 
added, producing some notes from a pocket 
which, in their merriment over my uniform, 
the Spaniards had quite forgotten to search— 

“ ‘ You see, my man. I’m in a position to 
rcAvard you if you carry out this Avish of mine.’ 


“He laughed an unpleasant laugh and left 
me. I Avaited with such patience as I could 
command, knoAYing that it might take some 
time to find a priest Avhose physical propor¬ 
tions Avere equal to my oavu. The sun liad 
set, in fact, before the door of my cell 
reopened, and my gaoler, to Avhom I 
promptly handed the reward Avhicli I had 
promised him, ushered in a tall friar, habited 
in the floAving robes of the Dominican Order. 

“ I boAved to him Avith that courtesy 
Avhich, I trust, has always distinguished me 
in dealing Avith my equals, even AAdien they 
also happen to be my enemies. 

“ ‘ I regret, my father,’ I said, ‘ having to 
receive you in so unworthy an apartment. 
Hothing but the most stern necessity compels 
me.’ 

“ The speech surprised him. He had evi¬ 
dently expected a more abject attitude. 

“ ‘ My son, the time is short,’ he ansAvered, 
‘and as I doubt not that your sins are 
many, it were Avell to Avaste none of it in idle 
AA^ords.’ 

“ I Avatched him intently Avhile he spoke, 
and took his measure. It AA^as important, 
since the success of the great coup that I 
projected depended av holly upon the nature 
of the man Avith Avhom I had to deal. 

“ He was tall, as I haA^e said, but frail and 
spare of build. I read superstition in the 
shape of his forehead, AAUich AA^as high and 
narrow. His thin lips, and the contour of 
his mouth, betokened that mixture of cruelty 
and weakness AAdiich has made the Spanisli 
priest so widely hated, even in countries 
Avhere there lingers no tradition of the 
sacred office. He was a man Avdio Avould 
persecute if he dared. But his shifty eyes 
quailed before my glance, so that I felt 
sure that there was no re-al courage behind 
his cruelty. 

“ First of all, for the success of my plan, it 
was necessary that I should give him con¬ 
vincing demonstration of my superior physi¬ 
cal poAA^ers. I made liim feel the muscles of 
my arms. 

“ ‘ There, my father,’ I said to him. 
‘ What think you of the cruelty Avhich 
condemns a man in the prime of a strength 
like mine to be killed like a rat in a hole ? ’ 

“ He Avas already beginning to be afraid of 
me, AAffiich Avas AAdiat I AA^anted; but his 
dignity did not yet forsake him. 

“ ‘ It is the will of God,’ he ansAvered, 

‘ and I am only liere that you may make 
confession of your sins.’ 

“ As he Avas speaking I had sloAAdy advanced 
toAvards him. As a frightened man aaIII, he 


THE SHORT SHRIFT OF THE FILIBUSTER. 


707 



bad slunk back before me, so that I was 
almost pressing him against the walls in the 
corner of the cell farthest from the door. 
His eyes shoAved the A^ague terror that Avas 
coming over him. And then I said, sinking 
my voice to a AAdiisper— 

“ ‘ ISTo, my father, you are not here to 
listen to my confession. You are here 
to save my life.’ 

“He made a movement as though he 
Avould cry for help, but Avith a menacing 
gesture 1 friglitcned him into silence, so 
that the sound died aAvay, unuttered, iu 
his throat. 

“ ‘ Listen ! ’ I Avent on, still in the 
same subdued tone of voice. ‘ I have made 
you see hoAv strong I am. You knoAV 
AA^ell that I can throttle you Avhere you 
stand, long before any help can come to 
you. I shall do this if vou make a sino:le 


sound, 
a n d I 
shall still do 
it if you hesi¬ 
tate to obey the 
orders Avhich I am 
about to give you. Now ! ’ 
“ He made another moA^ement, tlie faint 
beginning of a Avriggle, as he thought that 
he might slip paso me like an eel. My hands 
approached his throat and he desisted. 1 
AA'ent on— 

“ ‘ It is a very simple thing that I require. 


In the first ])lace, you will cliange clothes 
AA'ith me. If you are Avilling to do this, do 
not speak, but nod your head.’ 

“ He stood there, pale and motionless, try¬ 
ing to find the courage to defy me. 

“ ‘ My father,’ I said, ‘ I can only give you 
AA’hile I count ten. One— two—three—four 


‘•‘Your prisoner, is he? 
Then let’s see you come 
aboard my ship and take 
him.’ ” 


— five — six — seven — 

eight—nine-’ 

“ He nodded. 

“ ‘ Undress, then,’ I 
said. ‘ And mark me, if 
there is any noise, or any 
sign of hesitation-’ 

“ This time he fully understood that I Avas 
in earnest and obeyed me. I hurried him, 
for there Avas always the chance that the 
gaoler might come back and interrupt us. 
In five minutes— or perhaps in less—the 
priest had put on my uniform, and I Avas 
attired in the black garb of the Dominican. 
But there Avas still one more little formality 
to be gone through. 

“ ‘ My father,’ I said, ‘ I might make you 
SAA^ear on your crucifix that you Avill stay 
here quietly until someone comes and finds 
you.’ 

“ From the sliifty look in liis eyes I per¬ 
ceived that this Avas the veiy thing that he 
AA'ould be glad for me to do. 

“ ‘ But,’ I continued, ‘ the temptation to 
break your oath AVould be very terrible. Ifi 











708 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


will be kinder not to expose you to it. So I 
shall gag yon.’ 

“ I improvised a gag by tearing a strip of 
cloth from my robes, and he submitted to 
have it thrust into his mouth. Then I 
said— 

“ ‘ Good-bye, my father. In the years to 
come it will, perhaps, be a grateful memory 
to you that you have been instrumental in 
saving the life of Jean Antoine Stromboli 
Kosnapulsld.’ 

“ And with that I opened the door with the 
key that had been left in it for my spiritual 
adviser’s use, and locked it again carefully 
behind me, and strode silently, as though 
deep in meditation, down the passage. No 
one suspected anything, no one stopped me 
to ask a cpiestion. The prison gate was 
flung open wide for me by an obsequious 
attendant, and I was once more at liberty. 
I made straight for the hills and hid myself 
in the woods and waited for the dawn. 

“It broke at last, with all the golden 
grandeur of the tropics; and I found that 
my hiding-place, though far away, com¬ 
manded a view of the yard of the very prison 
in wliich I had been confined a few short 
hours before. There was a bustle and con¬ 
fusion there. A prisoner was being dragged, 
struggling violently, to the place of execution. 
He wore a uniform — my uniform. I 
understood. 

“ ‘ My God ! The gag in his mouth ! He 
can’t explain ; they’ve mistaken him for me ; 
they’re shooting him instead of me.’ 

“ My heart sank and I was ashamed. 
Though all be fair in war, yet I had not 
meant this, and knew that it was unworthy 
of me. I give you my word that, if I had 
been near enough, I would have stepped 
forward to save the priest and resigned myself 
to the soldiers’ vengeance. I give you my 
word, too, that I shouted aloud with joy when 
the sudden firing of cannon and pealing of 
alarm bells told me that the Spaniards had 
found out their mistake in time, and that 
the search for me would now, at last, 
begin. 

“ ‘ Courage ! ’ I said to myself, and worked 


my way slowly and stealthily down the hill¬ 
side, meaning to strike the bay at the point 
where I saw the British gunboat lying at 
anchor close alongside. 

“ Before I could get to it there was a short 
space of open ground to be traversed, and 
in that open space I saw no less a person 
than General Burriel himself, with armed 
orderlies in attendance, smoking his cigar, 
and enjoying the fresh morning air. 

“ There was nothing for it but to run the 
gauntlet of their fire, trusting for my safety 
in the inaccuracy of Spanish aim. I ran ; 
they missed me ; and a minute later, with 
the help of a rope that a bluejacket flung to 
me, I had scrambled on to the deck of the 
Seamew. 

“ The captain seemed surprised to see me ; 
but I explained my presence in a few hot, 
hurried sentences. 

“ ‘ I have escaped from the Santiago prison. 
They took me, in the Washington^ in British 
waters. I am Jean Antoine Stromboli 
Kosnapulsld.’ 

“ The captain rose to the occasion. 

“ ‘ I don’t care a hang who you are,’ he 
replied politely, ‘but if they took you in 
British waters, you’re safe, till further notice, 
under the British flag.’ 

“ And he maintained the same attitude 
when General Burriel himself approached 
and demanded my surrender, saying— 

“ ‘ I want that man. That man is my 
prisoner.’ 

“ The sailors had gripped their cutlasses ; 
the marines had fixed their bayonets ; and 
the captain of the Seameiv stepped forward 
and shouted with that magnihcent Anglo- 
Saxon insolence which is the admiration of 
the world— 

“ ‘ Your prisoner, is he ? Then, hang 
it, sir, let’s see you come aboard my ship and 
take him.’ 

“ But this the Spaniards did not do. If 
they had failed to keep Jean Antoine 
Stromboli Kosnapulski in their prison when 
he was alone and friendless, still less could 
they recapture him when the whole might 
of the British Empire stood behind him.” 



CO 









Villager : I suppose Mr. Jones is fairly well- 
to-do, isn’t he ? 

Guocer : Well, he ain't to say neither very rich 
nor very ])oor. 

ViLi.AGER : How’s that ? 

Grocer : He just pays cash for everything he 
has. 



“ Plow long before the next train leaves ? ” she 
inquired at the booking office. 

“ Thirty minutes,” replied the clerk. 

“ Then I shall have time to go across the road 
and buy something ? ” she queried. 

“ That all de])ends, madam,” he returned 
courteously. “ Where is your money ? ” 

“ In my ]iocket,” she answered in surprise. 

“ Ah! Then I’m afraid you’ll scarcely have 
time if you have to get it out.” 



Miss Prattle : Did you ever begin a book and 
not finish it? 

Distinguished Author: I do so regularly once 
a year. 

Miss Pratti.e : How very curious ! Do tell me 
some of their titles. 

Distinguished Author: There is only one 
title for the lot—A Diaiy. 



“ No, mamma,” sobbed the unhappy young 
wife, “ George doesn’t love me. I found it out last 
night.” 

“Oh, my poor child,” the mother exclaimed, 
“what has happened? Ah, I see it all! You 
found a letter in his pocket I ” 

“It wasn’t that,” the miserable young woman 
answered. “ He came home and told me that he 
had had his life insured.” 

“Well?” 

“ Why, if he really loved me, wouldn’t he have 
had mine insured, instead of selfishly going and 
having all this protection put upon himself?” 


“ You used to say that everything was so 
compact and convenient in a fiat! ” said the caller 
in a tone of surprise. 

“ Yes,” replied her friend, “ I used to be able to 
find a place for everything. But it’s difierent now. 
I wish someone would invent a motor-car that you 
can fold up when you want to put it away.” 



Teacher : How do you spell “ That ” ? 

Class: THAT. 

Teacher : Now what remains Avhen the “ t ” is 
taken away ? 

Small Girl (after a moment’s silence) : Dirty 
cups and saucers. 



CONCERNING JACK AND JILL. 

By F. Klichniann, 

Jack and Jill went up the hill 
To fetch a pail of milk; 

Jack was dressed in his Sunday best, 

And Jill was all in silk. 

They tied the pail to Brindle’s tail, 

And clambered on her back; 

Which made her Jump and sadly bump 
Miss Jill and Master Jack. 

She leapt so high, they knocked the sky, 

And bashed into a star; 

It blinked its eyes in mild surprise. 

And said, “ How rude you are!” 

The milk upset, they all got wet, 

The clouds, indeed, were soaking; 

The sky=blue ground was nearly drowned. 

And gurgled, “Most provoking!” 

The stars all rushed and banged and brushed, 
And scoured for half a day; 

The planets rubbed, the comets scrubbed. 

To clear the Milky Way. 

The cow, meanwhile, had ceased to smile. 

She was too much incensed 

When, turning round, she duly found 
The milk was not condensed ! 

With crumpled tail she tossed the pail. 

The moon-man beamed with laughter. 

For Jack fell down and broke his crown. 

And Jill came tumbling after ! 


703 






710 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 


THE CITY AT LUNCH. 

By W, Pett Bldye. 

As the office clocks near the hour of one, anxious 
appealing looks from junior clerks are directed at 
the round face, begging it with great urgency to 
make haste. The office clocks would respond 
good-naturedly, I think, to this request, only 
that they are checked by stern glances fiom 
seniors, whose main complaint against the day is 
that it has but four-and-twenty liours, whose 
grudge against clocks is that they travel too 
quickly. Between these antagonistic appeals the 
City clocks wisely decide that the lime between 
midday and one shall be of precisely the same 
period as that between other hours, with the result 
that they please nobody. 

“ Blessed clock’s always slow,” grumble the 
juniorso 

“ Somebody’s been putting that clock on,” 
complain the seniors. 

But one o’clock strikes with a sharp ting from 
little clocks, and a deep, carefully 
considered booming from St. 

Paul’s and other churches, and 
on the instant half the City is 
placing down its pen, taking its 
paper piotectors from shirt-cuffs, 
giving silk hats a turn on coat 
sleeves, and setting out to billet 
on neighbouring restaurants. 

Wild youngsters scream as they 
go with the pent-up emotions of 
the morning; grown up young 
men growl a cheerful melod}^, 
and see that their neckties and 
moustaches are in order. For a 
space the City is in their hands. 

At restaurants and tea-shops pre¬ 
parations for the attacks have 
been arranging all the morning, 
and the defence is ready—plates 
of cold food arc ranged on the 
counter to check the advance 
steaks are mounted on the grill 
so near to being ready that 
another wink of time would burn 
them; the coffee-urns steam 
with anxiety. No time to lose; 
the high stools are at the counter; 
the attendants behind the ram¬ 
parts of food arc cool and resolute 
in the manner of defenders who 
have always succeeded in coping 
with the enemy, and in making 
it pay for the damage it has done. 

Because time is limited, the old- 
fashioned rule of etiquette, which 
warned one never to speak with 
one’s mouth full, is not here 
observed; the maternal warning 
that you should not attempt to 
do two things at the same time is 
disregarded; cigarettes are made, 
the halfpenny evening paper— 
already in quite a mature edition 
—is skimmed, the world surveyed. 


“And if Surrey doesn’t jolly well buck u]), 

she’ll find herself nothing more nor less than-’’ 

“ The man handles his bat as though he was 

offering cake. Now, when I go to the wickets-” 

“ Oh, our chief is an outsider. My woi d, what 
a bounder ! If ever a wrong ’un did exist in this 
world, it’s him. Just because 1 was about half- 
aii-hour late this morning, he was sim-ply raving. 
I told him I’d overslept myself, but even that 
didn't satisfy him ; went on at me up hill and 
down dale. I didn’t say anything, but I let him 
see I didn’t half like it by the way I shut the 
door.” 

“ Been engaged, I have, times out of number— 
well, three times at any rate—and I don’t mind 
telling you, old chap, that this present one is 
absolutely and without doubt the most charmin' 
girl that ever worked in a shop. Perfect lady, too! 
Her father’s house has.got two steps up to the 
front dooi-.” 

“I don’t say I’m a better player, mind you. 
What 1 do say is that I don’t want any of his 



Mistress : Your master complained of tlie cooking again to-day, Sarah. 
Sarah : Don’t you worry about ’im, ma’am, any more than 1 do ; it’s just 
’is little way. Ain’t 'e always a-findiii’ fault with you ? 



















































XLnhcn for (BranteC)* 

Lady Kitty : Just imagine! That disreputable Reggie Fairfax had the cheek to ask me to go to the theatre 
with him last night ! 

Miss Amklia : What did you think of the play ? 





712 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. 



“ CLIENTS arc waraed tliat the 8^/. 
Plates are not served in this room, 
but can be obt^. at Luncheon Bak.” 


women, with an identical mode of liead-dress, and 
a cold severity of manner that freezes the hadimuja 
of joyous youth. Some men drink tea at midday. 
This is sacrilege ; tea should be reserved jealously 
for the hour of four, and any ohence against this 
i-ule has to he punished by dyspepsia. The 
tendency is to make the midday meal lighter and 
lighter, although there are still places where only 
a square meal is oflbred, and where the man who 
dared ask for a piece of cake and a glass of warm 
milk would be placed on the silver grill. Near 
the Stock Exchange, and also near the Wool 
Exchange, there are places where steaks of excel¬ 
lence can be obtained—steaks so rare in quality 
and so artistic, that the coppers given on leaving 
to the white-capped, white-aproned genius who 
prejiared it should be, if a sense of projDortion wei’e 
used, untold gold. 

In odd, shy, unobserved streets in the City the 
old-fashioned restaurant can still be found, 
with its pew-like arrangement of seats, 
and solid waiters shuffling up and down 
the aisles and bawling a kind of verbal, 
stopless shorthand down to the kitchen. 
“ Two steaks, one underdone, ’urry up 
them coliflers, one mashed on order, two 
soles, one of ’em fresh, pineomild.” They 
take in The Times at these old-style 
luncheon-i'ooms, and divide it amongst 
the sittings, arranging that the doyen of 
the clients gets the inside, and that the 
youngest receives the advertisement pages. 
Also they take in the Immoimis papers, 
which come in white and clean on the 
day of publication and set out on their 
week’s journey, reaching the end in a 
condition that clouds their intent. On 
the walls appears a notice— 


Here a cut from the joint and odd 
things are served at, say, eighteenpence. 
A man with a reasonable appetite desires 
no better meal. In the busy, crammed, 
turbulent luncheon-hour the slippered 
waiters have no time foi* conversation— 
call on them later in the day and they are 
grateful if allowed to hold respectful con¬ 
versation. I used to look upon them as I 
regard churchwai-dens, but one in Ab- 
church Lane destioyed my faith. On a 
certain afterncon he told me that his 
father had been an old Tory squire, and 
that he himself had been brought up in 
luxurious surroundings, “with every 
blessed thing, sir, tliat the ’eart could wish 
for.” A partiality for backing horses 
that came in fourth had reduced him to 
his present circumstances, and now his 
great fear was that he should encounter 
some of his old Oxford contemporaries, 
“ for then,” he said, “ I shan’t know where 
to put my little face to.” I felt pained at 
all this, and I remember that I gave him, 
being then young, as much as threepence 
for himself, feeling that this would help 


cheek, either in the tennis ground or out of it. 
He’d better be careful! If he calls me splay-foot 
again, I shall tell him what his sister said about 
him.” 

“ Thank you, sir I After you with the mustard. 
Now, then, Charles, aren’t those tomatoes planted 
yet ? Do hurry up, there’s a good sort; I’m all 
behind with my work at the office, and hei’e are 

you putting every obstacle in my wajq except- 

At last.” 

A great change has come over the City at its 
lunch during late years. Men who took a glass 
of wine and a biscuit now go to one of the bread 
shops and take a cup of coffee and a roll and 
butter. To this frugal meal a bank manager sits, 
perhaps, at the next table to his smallest office- 
boy. The Bread and Butter Company levels all. 
This type of restaurant has introduced another 
reform by providing demui-ely gowned young 


A EITTLE knowledge! 

Stranger : Boy, can you direct me 
to the Bank ? 

Boy: I kin for sixpence. 

Stranger : Sixpence 1 Isn’t that 
liigh pay ? 

Boy : Yes, sir ; but it’s Bank directors 
what gits higli pay. 




































THE EDITOR'S SCRAP-BOOK. 


718 



Husband : Why, I thought you were going to pay these hills out of your allowance ? 
Wife : But I didn’t buy these things until after I had spent it. 


to console him for his reverse of fortune. Knowing 
that he would always expect this sum from me 
on subsequent visits, I refrained from going to 
the restaurant until an afternoon some months 
later, on the occasion of my birthday. He did 
not recognise me, and presently, on bringing my 
cabinet-pudding, he told me that his father had 
been, perhaps, one of the finest performers at the 
music-halls of his day ; that his mother had been 
an Italian countess, and that he himself, if he 
cared to give up his work at the luncheon-rooms, 
could make money—“ ’and over fist,” he expressed 
it—by singing in any country of the world that I 
cared to mention. “ Only drawback is,” said the 


waiter patheticalljq “ my doctor tells me I could 
never stan’ the excitement. Cons’quently I ’ave 
to stay on ’ere and do the best I can, and take 
whatever small silver our young gentlemen cus¬ 
tomers like to leave on the table for me. See 
what I mean ? ” 

In the summer months the luncheon-hour for 
those in the east of the City is spent on the quay 
at the long white Customs House, where those 
who are prompt and fleet of foot can get a seat, 
and, as they eat sandwiches, watch the steamers 
go down the river towards the Tower Bridge; 
see the Customs officers set out in their boats to 
rummage arriving ships, and generally get some 

















714 


THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE, 


brief suggestion of a visit to the seaside. There 
it is that young men tliink and talk of holidays, 
discuss the prices and the advantages of Southend 
as compared wiih Margate, and barter economical 
addresses. Pigeons flutter down and finish the 
sandwiches left from these open-air luncheons, 
unless they are anticipated by the queer, dilapidated 
Avastrels who slouch about the City searching the 
ground and gleaning unconsidered trifles, and for 
whom even the cheapest restaurants are not. 

Just as in the City the man who has had a 
good morning in Throgmorton Street can take 
his partner- to the best and dearest luncheon that 
even a stockbroker can desire, so the City, being a 
thoughtful matron, with sons who are successful 
and sons who are unlucky, provides, in odct corners, 
establishments where sixj)ence takes a man through 


The following letter was recently received by the 
secretary of a large insurance company;— 

“ Dear Sni,—I regret to inform you I have lost 
my policy. Will you kindly send me another, for 

which I enclose stamp ?—^Yours truly,- 

“ P.S.—Since writing the above I am happy to 
tell you I have found the policy. Do not trouble 
to return the stamp.” 



“This,” said the magistrate, “is one of the 
most aggravated cases of assault and battery ever 
brought to my official notice. How could a big, 
able-bodied man like you strike a deaf mute V ” 

“ Deaf an’ dumb, is he ? Then why didn’t he 
say so ? ” 



AMENITIES AT OUU POINT TO POINT RACE. 

The only two left in the race are both hesitating at certain posts and rails. 

Hobson : Give us a lead, Dobson ; my horse hates timber ! 
Dobson : So does mine. Let’s pull out the top rail, old chap. 


the entire bill of fare. Here is a copy of one 
dabbed on a window— 

d. 

Pea Soup . 

Cabbage . T 

Potatoes . 1 

Slice Beef. . 2 

Bread . ^ 

This is not a meal to tempt the delicate—the 
customer has to provide his own a])petite. Even 
here there are compensations, and 1 once saw an 
impoi’tant City man—who paj^s the rent of two 
doctors in Harley Street, and is their slave—I saw 
him look in at one of these chea]), busy places, 
and for a few moments he watched the eating, 
contented customers. Then he sighed, and went 
back to his suite of offices in Cornhill to drink a 
glass of hot water for lunch. 


“ Do you dance on your toes. Miss Fay ? ” 

“ Oh no, Mr. Heavisides. Pve no occasion to 
do that; other people do it for me! ” 

And yet after that he asked her for another 
dance and wondered why she refused! 

i 

Large-Sleeved Lady : My good man, have 
you ever reckoned up how much money men waste 
each year on drink and tobacco ? 

Hardened Reprobate ; Can’t say as I have, 
ma’am ; you see, it’s takin’ up all my spare time 
jest now calc’latin’ how much women waste 
each year on the hextry cloth they puts in their 
sleeves.